


Offer Your Throat (to the Wolf with the Red Roses)

by Fearful_little_thing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - Stiles goes into the woods alone, Bisexual Stiles, Derek is a creeper, Derek may be unstable, Dub-Con in places, Full Shift Werewolves, Implied Neglect, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, POV shifts, Peter dies early, Scott is a Good Friend, Stalking, Unhealthy Relationships, Voyeurism, alpha!Derek, non-consensual finger sucking, the Hale Vault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fearful_little_thing/pseuds/Fearful_little_thing
Summary: That night in the woods Derek killed his uncle and saved a boy named Stiles. Since then he's felt a connection to the boy, like they're meant to be together, like Stiles belongs to him. He's brave, and smart, and everything a newly made alpha could ever want… And Derek needs to be close to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the Sterek Reversebang 2018, for art done by the amazing Rozurashii

The woods, Stiles had come to realise, were uncomfortably dark and full of sticks. Attached to trees, scattered on the ground, masquerading as small bushes – the sticks were out to get him. It didn’t help that his phone had died, leaving him without any sufficient source of light.

 

He wouldn’t count the moon. It was a round, glowing circle in the sky, sure. But it was a cloudy night, and shadows kept passing across the moon’s face and turning the forest from shades of night-gray to almost pitch black. Too dark to tell exactly where he was.

 

Too dark to see the sticks before he ran into them. Or tripped over them.

 

Why had he come out here in the first place? Stiles wondered after tripping over the third exposed tree root in a row. Why hadn’t he just gone home after Scott had knocked back his idea to go corpse-hunting in the woods?

 

Why had he wanted to go corpse-hunting in the first place?

 

“Because I’ve got impulsivity issues, that’s why,” Stiles muttered to himself.

 

Impulsivity issues and too much unsupervised time on his hands. All of his homework was long-ago done (or forgotten), the few chores around the house way too boring to count as something to keep himself occupied. Stiles was self-aware enough to know that boredom often spelled trouble… He wasn’t quite ready to admit that maybe getting into trouble was one of the only ways he had of getting his father to spend any time with him.

 

A fourth tree root snagged his shoelace, nearly succeeding where the others had failed and almost taking him down. Stiles awkwardly hop-skipped over it, deeply proud of himself when he managed to remain upright.

 

Two steps later he walked face first into a spider web.

 

Cursing aloud, he flailed to get the clinging strands off him – too caught up in hoping he hadn’t just kidnapped a spider with his hair to notice the way the ground sloped sharply just ahead. He had a horrible moment of clarity just before he started to tumble down the slope. He was going to break his neck, he thought. He was going to break his neck, lost in the dark in the woods, and his father was going to have to call a search party to find him.

 

Stiles didn’t break his neck.

 

Instead he tumbled to an ungraceful stop at the bottom of the slope, dried leaves and dirt clinging to him all over, his knees and elbows uncomfortably damp with mud. Lying face-up in the dirt, Stiles cautiously patted himself down to check for injuries. He sighed in relief at finding himself in one piece and let his arms flop out sideways on the dirt. Then he froze.

 

His left hand was resting on dirt, hard packed, with an unpleasant film of mud on the top. His right hand was resting on something else. Something cold. Something with far too much give to be wood or stone.

 

Something that felt kind of like skin.

 

Stiles looked left.

 

Sightless, staring eyes looked back at him from a bloodless face.

 

He screamed.

 

And though it was a perfectly reasonable reaction to coming face to face with a corpse in the woods, later Stiles would wonder if it wasn’t his scream that had set off the chain of events that followed. If he hadn’t screamed, would he have gotten away before the creature had noticed him? Or would he have just been mauled to death, with nothing to alert the other one to their location?

 

Stiles scrambled upright, slipping and sliding in the thin layer of mud on the ground. For a second his mind went blank, a static fizz buzzing behind his eyes. Then it kicked back into gear, a hundred times faster than before.

 

He’d found the body. He’d been touching its’ shoulder. The body was naked, no signs of clothing or tattered scraps of cloth to be found. The skin was bloodless all over, no signs of blood pooling anywhere. And though the dead woman’s hair was splayed out on the ground as if she’d fallen, the mud and dirt beneath her was undisturbed.

 

She’d been dumped here. Killed somewhere else and dumped _here_.

 

_This half of her anyway_ , Stiles thought hysterically, swallowing down the absurd urge to laugh.

 

Noise from the right made him freeze.

 

Like an idiot he turned towards the sound, part of him hoping that the snap of twigs was a sign that he was about to be found by the search party. The heavy thump of footsteps might be a deputy in state-approved, thick soled shoes.

 

A low, rattling growl vibrated through the air. The hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stood up, his skin prickling with goose bumps. He could swear he saw two glowing red eyes emerge from the darkness as whatever eldritch being his scream had awoken took another step forward.

 

Clouds parted briefly, and moonlight bathed the tiny clearing just enough to give the teen a glimpse of the creature in front of him. It was a horrible, misshapen thing. Taller than a man, its’ shoulders broad and powerful and covered in a thick, dark fur. Its face was deformed, the lower half formed into something like a muzzle, and heavy ridges over too-human eyes that glowed with an internal fire.

 

The creature’s terrible mouth – a mouth filled with long, sharp teeth – curled into a snarl.

 

Suddenly able to move again, Stiles’ fight or flight instinct kicked into gear. He half-turned on the ball of his foot, getting ready to bolt in the opposite direction as fast as humanly possible.

 

Not fast enough, it turned out.

 

He was on the ground before he’d even realised that he’d been knocked down. Stiles tasted dirt, mud and grit smeared into his teeth from where he’d been pushed face first into the ground. He gasped, the wind knocked from his lungs, and scrabbled helplessly at the ground even as impossibly huge claws hooked into the back of his jacket and dragged him across the forest floor.

 

Stiles was thrown, hurled through the air only to come to a painful stop at the base of a nearby tree. The back of his head hit the bark, pain exploding through his skull. Dazed, he tried to push himself upright and found himself helped by a clawed hand around his throat. Instinctively he grabbed at the monster’s wrist, horror blooming at the feeling of clammy skin and rough fur beneath his fingers.

 

Sour, hot breath hissed over his face as the creature’s mouth opened wide, getting ready to bite.

 

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, certain that he was about to die.

 

A roar, so loud it made his ears ring.

 

The clawed hand wrenched from his throat, leaving shallow scratches in its wake, as a man-sized blur barrelled into the clearing and tackled the creature from the side. Freed from its grip, Stiles sagged against the tree.

 

Snarls and growls filled the air. Claws flashed and blood spilled.

 

Though he was looking right at them, Stiles couldn’t have said what exactly happened. One minute it was chaos, the man fighting the monster with claws that grew from his fingertips. The next it was over and the monster lay dead on the ground, slowly shrinking, becoming human in death.

 

Covered in blood, the victor turned to face him, and Stiles gulped audibly at the sight he made.

 

The man – if he was a man – was splattered with blood.

 

It coated his hands, the bottom half of his face, and bloomed in dark stains across his claw-marked shirt. His eyes glowed red beneath heavy brow-ridges and hair like fur covered the sides of his face. As Stiles watched the fur melted away, the brow-ridges replaced with dark eyebrows on a human face.

 

“Holy shit,” Stiles squeaked aloud. “Holy _shit_.”

 

“Did he bite you?”

 

Stiles gaped for a second, his brain momentarily unable to reconcile the smooth, smoky voice with the blood-covered man standing in front of him. “Wh-what?”

 

The man huffed a short, impatient sigh, then stepped forward. His hands, still covered in wet, shiny blood, grabbed at Stiles’ jacket and the hem of his shirt. “Did he _bite_ you?” the man repeated, impatient hands yanking at the teen’s shirt to expose his side.

 

Stiles batted at the hands, trying to dance away from the man’s touch. Somewhat unsuccessfully, considering the tree at his back and the way his body had already gone stiff with bruising.

 

“What?” Stiles repeated, his voice a little higher and more hysterical than he would have liked. “What are you talking about? He didn’t – I don’t – would you _stop_ that!?” he shied away from the cold, blood-slick fingers poking at his side, relieved when they finally stopped.

 

Even if the man didn’t back away at all, still standing too close to be comfortable.

 

“You’ll live,” the man said, as if that were in any doubt.

 

“Great! Great. I’m just – super excited that I’m not going to die. I’m not, right?” Stiles winced a little even as the question tumbled out. “I’m not going to die here tonight? I mean, you just killed – not that I’m complaining and it was totally one hundred percent justified – you just killed that guy… that thing. That guy-thing? He’s a guy now but he was a thing. Oh my God I should not have gone into the woods tonight…”

 

He trailed off into uncomfortable silence, his eyes drifting off over the man’s shoulder to the corpse – _corpses_ – lying in the dirt.

 

“Werewolf,” the man in front of him said, which drew Stiles’ attention back. “He was a werewolf.”

 

“Werewolf,” Stiles repeated, staring into the man’s eyes and just now noticing that they were no longer glowing red. “Holy shit. Werewolf.”

 

The man looked at him in silence for a moment, his pale eyes drifting down to Stiles’ mud-stained jeans and back up to his face. He took a step back, giving the teen his personal space back. “Road’s that way,” he gestured.

 

Stiles took that to mean that he would not be killing the witness.

 

“Don’t tell anyone.”

 

Stiles huffed out a slightly strangled laugh. “Yeah, no. Not telling anyone about this, man. I don’t want to be committed. Or worse, grounded.”

 

“Go home,” the man told him, turning away from him to face the bodies. One that he’d killed and one that, presumably, he hadn’t.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, shakily starting off in the direction the man had pointed out. “Yeah, that’s a… yeah. Good idea.”

 

He was almost gone from the clearing when the man spoke again. “My name’s Derek.”

 

Stiles hesitated, not sure what the appropriate response to a werewolf-killing (possible werewolf himself?) man suddenly introducing himself should be. “Uh… Stiles,” he said finally. “I’m Stiles.”

 

Then he hurried off as fast as his bruised and battered body would allow. Leaving the clearing, the bodies, and Derek the maybe-werewolf behind.

 

 

Derek looked down at the body of his uncle, feeling a shiver run down his spine. The alpha power, a power never meant to go to him, coursed through his body. The wounds Peter had inflicted were already gone. Only a slight feeling of tightness remained and that too would be gone in a minute.

 

Was this what it felt like to be alpha?

 

The taste of his uncle’s blood still filled his mouth, sickly-metallic and filled with hatred. Derek had never known that hatred had a flavour. The taste, the shock of it all, had felt like it had dampened his senses until the only thing he could smell or taste was death. But he’d heard the heartbeat, rabbit-fast and loud as a drum, and had remembered that there was another living thing in the clearing too.

 

A boy. A teenager with long, lanky limbs and impossibly wide eyes. And even under the blood and dirt and fear-sweat he’d smelled so good Derek had started to salivate. He’d wanted to press his nose against that pale moonlight skin, wanted to burrow his way into that warm, soft body and stay there forever.

 

He’d held back though.

 

There was work to do, family to mourn, and it was neither the place nor the time for courting.

 

Derek buried his uncle’s body beneath the charred ruins of their old family home, deep in the soil in a place where nobody would go looking for him. Part of him had wanted to leave the man where he lay, exposed to the elements. Rotting away to nothingness in the woods for what he’d done to Laura. But sense had won out. If anyone found Peter’s body in the woods they’d know he’d been killed, and an investigation would begin. An investigation that would inevitably lead back to Laura, and to Derek himself.

 

Better that Peter just go missing from the hospital. Better that he disappear.

 

Less questions would be asked that way, though the hospital might come under fire for losing a supposedly comatose patient. Missing persons never got as much attention as a body did.

 

Laura’s body, though it pained him, had to be left somewhere in the woods.

 

He’d passed by the Sheriff’s department’s search earlier, sneaking past them on his hunt for her killer. He knew they’d found half of her already, which meant they wouldn’t stop until they’d found her other half.

 

They’d rule her death an accident. An attack by something in the woods. A mountain lion the most likely culprit. But only if they didn’t find her buried neatly and respectfully the way she deserved.

 

That would have to wait.

 

Instead Derek moved her.

 

By that time the blood on his hands and face had long-since dried, a layer of dirt caked onto his skin and under his fingernails. He scooped her up as gently as he could, cradling her in his arms. She was so small like this, and not just in size. Without the spark of life in her she was just an empty shell. A sad, small thing that seemed so much _less_ than she had been in life.

 

He left her in the woods, half buried under fallen leaves.

 

By the time the dawn came he was back in the cheap motel room he’d rented on the edge of town. He stood in the shower stall and let the weak spray of water fall down on his head and shoulders as he thought about the boy in the woods.

 

“Stiles,” he murmured, testing the name aloud. It felt good in his mouth, good like the way the boy had smelled.

 

In his head he could almost hear what Laura would say to him if she knew what he was thinking. _Jesus Derek, not again_ , she’d say in that fondly exasperated tone. _Should I be worried this time_?

 

“I’m not going to hurt him, Laur,” Derek muttered, as if she were there with him still.

 

_You better not_ , the Laura in his head replied, _because I’m not around anymore to bail your ass out of trouble._

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Stiles finally got home it was much later than he’d anticipated. He’d found the road easily enough, but then he’d had to backtrack a good ways to find the Jeep where he’d left it. Out of sight just in case the sheriff or any of his deputies happened to pass by and see it.

 

His dad was still out when Stiles parked outside their house again, and he thanked the universe for small miracles as he trudged warily up the driveway to let himself in through the back door.

 

Stiles left his mud-caked sneakers by the back door and shuffled inside in his socks.

 

His movements sluggish with exhaustion and the ache of bruises, the back of his head still throbbing uncomfortably, Stiles trudged to the upstairs bathroom. He groped for the light, fingers leaving a smear of dirt on the plastic, and paused in stunned horror at the sight of himself in the mirror.

 

He was covered in mud and dirt, bits of dried leaves clinging to his jacket, the legs of his jeans, and the short fuzz of his hair. Three long scratches marred one side of his neck, the skin around the freshly scabbed scrapes red and irritated. There were rusty red smears on his clothes where Derek had grabbed at him, blood stains in the rough shape of fingerprints. And to top it all off he was pretty sure he had a goose-egg bump on the back of his head.

 

How the hell he was going to explain that was a mystery.

 

He foresaw a lot of hats and hoodies in his immediate future.

 

Slowly, careful of his bruised ribs and stiff limbs, Stiles peeled his clothes off layer by layer. The parts of him that had been covered by clothing were shocking white in contrast to his mud-splattered face and hands, though vibrant red and black bruises were already blooming across his back. A matched set to the ones on his stomach, and the bumps he’d gotten from falling down the hill in the first place.

 

Skinny, pale, and covered in mud and bruises. Stiles snorted humourlessly as he reached over to turn on the shower. He looked even less appealing than usual.

 

Like an anti-bullying campaign. Or a poster in poor taste advertising some sort of helpline.

 

As he washed the dirt away and carefully scrubbed the debris from his hair, Stiles couldn’t help but let his mind play back the night’s earlier events.

 

He’d almost _died_.

 

He’d watched someone else die.

 

He’d touched a dead body, been attacked by a _werewolf_ – frankly he was still reeling at the idea that werewolves were real.

 

Obviously they weren’t common, Stiles thought to himself, gingerly washing blood and dirt from the back of his head. They couldn’t be, or someone somewhere would have blabbed about it to the media. The more people who knew a secret, the more likely that secret was to get out. Legends notwithstanding, if werewolves had actually been common there should have been _some_ indication that they were more than just fiction.

 

And there had to be different kinds, didn’t there?

 

Stiles frowned, picturing the horrible, misshapen beast that had been about to kill him. It had been more animal than human, a deformed thing with only the rough shape of a man. But Derek – who had to be a werewolf too – had been much more human. Clawed hands, fangs, but human too. And able to change forms at will, given the way that more bestial face had melted away into normal features.

 

Holy shit. Derek. Stiles’ mouth dropped open, long-forgotten memories bubbling up out of nowhere. Derek _Hale_.

 

Derek Hale, the teenager Stiles only vaguely remembered from before he and his sister moved away, was a werewolf. House fire, the memory continued. House fire, eleven dead, only three survivors. Had they all been werewolves, or had Derek acquired the condition somehow in his time away?

 

Stiles shivered. He realised suddenly that the water had gone cold. He’d been standing under the spray long enough to run out of hot water.

 

Reluctantly he got out of the shower and dried himself off, then hobbled to his room for his pyjamas. His dirt-caked, stained clothes he shoved into a plastic bag to await a furtive washing.

 

He collapsed into bed as the sky started to lighten in the pre-dawn, remembering that he had to get up again in just a few short hours if he wanted to make it to school on time. He didn’t notice the shadow pass by his window, or the gentle scrape of a claw against the outside of the house.

 

* * *

 

 

There wasn’t a lot to do in the cramped little motel room. After sleeping away much of the day Derek woke up in the afternoon only to feel boxed in by the plain beige walls of the utilitarian room. The surge of power that had come with Peter’s death left him feeling restless. The wolf under his skin itched in a way it never had before. Not threatening his control, just difficult to ignore.

 

Without Laura there to help anchor him he felt adrift. The last vestiges of his family were gone, the last people who had ever understood him… Dead, like all the rest of those he’d loved.

 

He pushed his mourning aside, squeezing the feelings tightly into a little box in the back of his mind. They could simmer there until he was ready to face them.

 

Derek hadn’t taken much with him when he’d packed to go to Beacon Hills. A single duffel bag contained everything he had with him. All his possessions in the world. He wouldn’t go back to their old apartment in New York for the rest. Feeling like this, with the wolf closer than ever before, the city would be even more of an assault to his senses than it ever had.

 

He could buy more things. If he needed them.

 

He had money enough. The trust fund the lawyers had set up for him and Laura when the house had burned. Investments she’d insisted on making in his name as well as her own.

 

Money was inconsequential. The thought of it didn’t soothe the wolf inside of him.

 

One thing did.

 

Derek grabbed a set of clean clothes from his duffel bag. He shoved his feet into boots and shrugged into his jacket, then palmed his keys and left.

 

It didn’t take him long to get to Beacon Hills high. Stiles had looked to be about highschool age, and BHH was the most likely choice for someone who lived close enough to the preserve to be wandering around the woods at night. He parked his sleek black Camaro a few blocks away. He knew from experience that the distinctive car drew attention, and that was the last thing he wanted right now.

 

A faint whiff of scent as he walked casually towards the building told him that he was right.

 

Experience had also told Derek that he could usually just walk into almost anywhere without someone raising a fuss. As long as he acted as if he was supposed to be there, nobody ever seemed to believe otherwise. A calm, confident demeanour had gotten him into just as many places as sneaking through the shadows. As such, nobody paid much attention to him wandering in through the main doors. He was a faculty member, maybe. Or a janitor, a groundsman. A teacher’s aide or university student. Someone’s older brother stopping by to drop something off.

 

The school hallways were filled with a base scent made by generations of students walking to and from class. It was a homey sort of smell, a many layered thing too complex to pull apart. Only the most recent scent trails were distinguishable in the miasma.

 

Undeterred, Derek simply walked down the hall as if he knew where he was going, subtly scenting the air as he went. A faint hint here and there kept him on the right course until finally he stood outside a science classroom.

 

He chose the angle carefully, standing in a spot where the casual observer inside the classroom wouldn’t see him looking through the window in the door.

 

Stiles sat at a bench in the middle-left of the classroom, his pencil idly tapping on the book open in front of him as he ignored the teacher writing on the board in favour of the boy sitting next to him.

 

“…really up to it,” Derek heard him say, Stiles’ voice just as surprisingly deep as he remembered. “I mean, I’d love to do it, I just don’t think it’s a good idea to put myself in the way of flying objects when I’m already feeling the bruises from my last trip into athleticism.”

 

“Come on, you have to,” the other boy said, his tone good natured and pleading. “Please? At least come for moral support or something. This was supposed to be our year, remember?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, and Derek saw him rub one side of his ribcage. “The year where we finally make first line on the lacrosse team and get to play on the field and score a million points and improve our social status.”

 

“We’re not going to be pond scum this year, Stiles,” the boy said firmly, encouragingly. “Just give it a try?”

 

“I’ll try,” Stiles agreed finally, “for you. And the plan. But if something hits me in my stomach this afternoon I’m tapping out because I do _not_ need to bleed internally.”

 

The other boy beamed. “Right, so –“

 

“Misters McCall and Stilinski,” the teacher drawled from the front of the room, interrupting the boy before he could get going. “If you’re quite finished?”

 

Derek stepped back away from the door. He turned and made his way out of the school again, then headed for the woods. The preserve bordered the school on two sides, cupped around the sports field in a way that provided excellent cover for a man to watch without being noticed. Derek found a spot by the lacrosse field and settled in to wait, taking in the fresh, clean scent of pine needles crushed beneath his boots.

 

Fifteen minutes after the final bell rang the field filled with teenage boys of various age, all of them dressed in sports gear and a good number of them carrying their own lacrosse gear. Derek picked Stiles out of the crowd easily, immediately drawn to the boy’s distinctive long limbs and wide, mobile mouth. He fixed his gaze on the teen, watching as he smiled and joked with his friend from before. He was still moving stiffly, but not so much that it was obvious he was injured.

 

Through the tryouts it was obvious that Stiles wasn’t the most graceful player, though he definitely wasn’t the worst on the field. He had potential, Derek thought. Especially given how long humans took to heal after the beating he’d taken the night before.

 

He was too far away to hear much of what was going on, but he heard the Coach’s final whistle clear enough.

 

The boys evacuated the field for the locker room. Some of them still bouncing and high on adrenaline, some of them trudging wearily after so much running up and down the field.

 

Stiles was in the latter group, wincing as he rolled a shoulder and tried to stretch out the muscle without aggravating his back. Derek’s fingers itched, already anticipating a chance to massage the soreness from the boy’s body.

 

He clenched his hands into fists.

 

Patience.

 

When the field was empty Derek strode out from his position at the tree line. He crossed the open grass field in long, efficient strides and slipped back into the school building. He remembered his way around from his few short years as a student and used his knowledge to pass by the locker room entrance unseen. There was another route he could take, a room that put him in close proximity to a grille that shared a ventilation shaft with the boy’s locker room.

 

From there he could listen, waiting until the rest of the boys left.

 

He suspected that Stiles would want to wait before he undressed, to avoid anyone seeing the extent of his bruising and asking any uncomfortable questions.

 

Derek leaned against the wall and listened to the inane chatter of highschool boys slowly fade away until only a few voices were left. Finally, he heard Stiles’ friend ask hesitantly;

 

“Are you ok, man? I know you said you wanted to wait, but… I feel kind of bad for dragging you out there and then just leaving you here after.”

 

“Scott, it’s fine,” Stiles replied, enough perkiness in his tone to suggest he might be faking it to make his friend think he was ok. “I’ve got the jeep, it’s not like I’m stranded. I told you, I’m bruised like a peach that rolled down a set of stairs and I didn’t want anyone freaking out over it and, like, accusing my dad of using me as a punching bag or something. You know what people are like, Scotty.”

 

A sigh from the other boy. “Yeah, I know. Promise you’ll call me if you get stuck or something though? I can borrow mom’s car if I need to.”

 

“Yeah, I promise. Now go. Do some homework.”

 

“I can’t,” Scott laughed. “I’ve got a shift at the clinic. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, tomorrow. Go save some kittens or something.”

 

Derek listened to the lone set of footsteps as they faded out of the locker room and down the hall. He heard Stiles sigh again, then a soft groan as he moved. Derek pushed away from the wall. He slipped back into the locker room, keeping to the shadows, his footfalls silent as he crept inside.

 

Stiles was by the bench near the showers, slowly and stiffly stripping out of his clothes.

 

The boy moved carefully, wincing when he bent down to take his track pants off. Derek hung back in the shadows and watched, letting his eyes rove down the boy’s long, pale legs as they were exposed. Hair dusted the boy’s calves and the tops of his thighs, his skin spotted with beauty marks. He was wearing plain white briefs that pulled tight against his skin as he bent over, revealing the pert shape of his ass.

 

He stood up again to strip off the wife beater he wore as an undershirt, the movement accompanied by a grunt of pain. As the hem of the undershirt inched up Derek could see why Stiles had waited until the others were gone.

 

Purple bruises mottled his skin in a thick stripe across his back. Smaller bruises blotted their way over one hip. And when Stiles turned Derek saw that his stomach was a mess of red and purple bruising as well.

 

Derek bit the inside of his cheek to keep from growling.

 

Peter was dead, he reminded himself. Peter was dead, and nobody would ever hurt _his_ boy like that again.

 

Unaware of Derek’s inner turmoil, Stiles hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear and bent over to push them down his thighs, grunting again when the movement pulled at his bruises. He dropped the underwear on the bench with the rest of his clothes and walked naked onto the tiles beneath the showers. To Derek’s delight, after he’d turned on the water Stiles stood with his back to the wall, his body facing out toward the rest of the room.

 

He was pretty, this boy of his.

 

His shoulders were broad, his body slender and lanky in a way that said he hadn’t finished growing yet. Puffy pink nipples stood out against the white of his chest, the boy’s upper torso free of body hair.  A thick trail of dark hair led from his stomach down to his groin, his pubic hair untamed by razors or wax.

 

Derek’s eyes flicked a touch lower and his mouth began to fill with saliva. Even here his boy was pretty. It was hard to tell how large he might be while erect, but Derek suspected that Stiles was more shower than grower. He’d have to wait, of course, to find out for sure. Approaching him here, in the locker room, was out of the question.

 

For that he wanted a safer place. Somewhere private, without the lingering smell of a hundred other teenage boys ingrained in the walls.

 

Somewhere he could have Stiles all to himself without fear of interruption.

 

Temptation flirted with him, the alpha wolf under his skin itching for a touch of all that soft, smooth skin. Derek backed up a step, and another, until he could turn and silently slip out of the room. He walked back to the Camaro, his pace unhurried. He knew where Stiles lived, knew which room was his. He could park a ways down the street and find a perch somewhere close by to watch him there.

 

* * *

 

 

It took three days before Stiles’ healed enough that it stopped hurting when he bent over. By the end of the week he was well on his way to being healed, though his skin was still mottled with yellowing bruises in interesting patterns. Luckily the goose-egg on the back of his head hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d thought, and his hair covered the residual bruising around the scab.

 

Hiding his injuries had taken a fair bit of effort, with some creative manoeuvring in his part to get out of the most taxing exercises in Gym and avoidance of getting undressed where anyone might be watching.

 

It was easier, though more depressing, to hide it from his dad.

 

Since the discovery of the body in the preserve the sheriff had been staying back after hours to handle the search and investigation. The case was winding down, he’d assured Stiles one night over a quick dinner of instant pasta and steamed vegetables. The other half of the body had been found – a bit of news that had caused Stiles to fumble with his glass and nearly spill water all over the table – and the ME had finally come back with their analysis.

 

“It was most likely a mountain lion,” Stiles’ dad had told him, sounding at once weary and yet relieved.

 

Weary because that meant they had a man-killer on the loose somewhere in the preserve and that was something that could easily spark a public panic. And relieved because it wasn’t a human murderer that they were looking for.

 

They were still waiting on identification. Stiles had a hunch, though he wasn’t about to voice it out loud and draw questions as to how exactly he might know that. But without that hunch to point the way the sheriff’s department was flying blind, relying on dental records, DNA, and missing persons reports. The body had been too far gone for fingerprinting. And so far no hits had turned up in the DNA databases that they had access to.

 

It was a mystery, but not a pressing one.

 

A more pressing one, in Stiles’ opinion, was how he could fill up the Jeep’s tank on the way home from school one day and then wake up the next morning with the gauge sitting on empty.

 

His dad had already left that morning, so Stiles couldn’t bum a ride off him. He considered begging Scott for a ride, then remembered that Melissa was currently on day shift and would have left already too. Which left only one option.

 

The bus.

 

Short walk to the stop, followed by twenty minutes of riding the bus when he could have made it in the Jeep in half that time. Stiles sighed, shut the door to the Jeep, hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders, and started walking. Out of the corner of his eye he swore he could see a flash of black darting across the neighbour’s lawn, but when he turned to look all he saw was the same old stone birdbath.

 

With a shrug, he turned and started walking again. No use dawdling and being late for the bus, or he’d have to walk for an hour just to hope he didn’t miss more than his first class.

 

The school day, like most any other, was long and tedious. The high points were lunch, goofing off with Scott in their shared classes, and getting back a quiz that he’d thought for sure he’d flunked… marked 98%. The low points were, of course, yet again being ignored by Lydia, Jackson, and a condescending fifteen-minute lecture on the use of safety goggles in chemistry.

 

He took the bus at the end of the day, getting off at the stop closest to his house.

 

During the ten minute walk home he could swear he heard footsteps following him once or twice, but every time he looked over his shoulder there was nothing there.

 

Stiles dumped his bag on the floor in his bedroom, then stopped. He could have sworn he’d closed the window that morning before he left for school. It was open now, just a few inches but still enough that the gentle breeze from outside had his curtains fluttering. Figuring he must have misremembered, or just forgotten entirely and assumed, Stiles shrugged to himself and shut the window.

 

Better now than never.

 

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Something small, or that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Lingering traces of… something. Like someone had come in while he was at school and moved things around before putting them back exactly the same way they had before.

 

It was a strange feeling, and irrational.

 

Stiles resolved to look up the side effects of unprescribed adderal and went downstairs to get a snack.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek’s favourite place to nap had come to be the boy’s bed.

 

His motel room was too impersonal, smelling just as much of cleaning products as it did of him. Stiles’ bed, on the other hand, smelled deliciously like Stiles himself even when the sheets had been freshly washed. Derek could burrow in under the blanket and surround himself with that calming scent, the alpha in him sleepy and content.

 

Being in Stiles’ room during the day also gave him the opportunity to learn more about the teenager.

 

Derek perused the books on the boy’s shelves, rifled through his desk drawers and the bedside table. He found the cheap personal lubricant that Stiles used and snorted, amused that it was the same brand that he’d used when he was a teenager. The temptation to use it – to jerk off in Stiles’ bed, surrounded by his scent – lingered in the back of Derek’s mind. In the end he put the lube back.

 

Though now that the idea was in his head he’d inevitably wind up doing it sooner or later. Just not today.

 

_You shouldn’t do it at all_ , Laura’s voice whispered.

 

“Shut up, Laur,” Derek muttered.

 

_He’s the sheriff’s son, you know. You’re obsessing over the sheriff’s son._

 

“I know.”

 

And he didn’t care. Stiles knew who he was. He knew that Derek had killed his uncle, had actually _seen_ him do it. If he didn’t go to his father for that, chances were good he wouldn’t go to him when Derek actually made his interest known.

 

He heard the distinctive rumble of the Jeep on its way down the street and quietly slipped out the window, shutting it behind him. It was Friday, which meant he wouldn’t be able to sneak in so easily during the next couple of days. Still, Derek wasn’t deterred. The prospect of slipping into the room while Stiles was asleep was one that made his skin prickle with anticipation. He wanted to see what Stiles looked like while sleeping from up close, not just through the tiny gap in the curtains.

 

The weekend passed with agonising slowness.

 

Stiles spent most of it either at his friend’s house or with his father, whether at the station or at home in the evenings. Derek watched from afar, forced to keep his distance or risk notice.

 

It was a relief to get back to his routine on Monday. Though Derek was startled when he got back to his motel room on Monday afternoon only to hear his phone buzzing on the bedside table. Somewhat surprised that anyone would be calling, and not sure who was left who even had his number, Derek answered the phone somewhat warily;

 

“Hello?”

 

“Am I speaking to Derek Hale?” A male voice asked, the tone polite yet assertive. The kind of voice that held authority and was accustomed to it.

 

“Yes,” Derek replied tersely.

 

He’d hang up if it was a sales call. If it was something to do with his and Laura’s properties or investments he’d have to stay on the line. Honestly, Derek was surprised his phone even had any charge left. He could swear he hadn’t plugged it in in several days.

 

“This is Sheriff Stilinski with the Beacon Country Sheriff’s Department,” the voice continued. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

 

Derek paused for a second to think before he replied. The sheriff’s tone was wrong for someone calling about an adult stalking his son. This was something else. “Yeah, I have a moment.”

 

“Alright, son. Now… I’m sorry to have to do this over the phone, but the records I could dig up on you and your sister say you’re all the way off in New York –“

 

“I’m in Beacon Hills,” Derek interrupted. “Have you found Laura?” he asked, taking a guess as to why the sheriff would be calling him. “She didn’t call when she was supposed to. I’ve been looking around but no one’s seen her.”

 

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Derek heard papers rustling, and the creak of a chair shifting. “Listen, perhaps it’s best if you come down to the station. We’ve, uh… I’m sure you have a lot of questions. And I’ll be honest, this isn’t the sort of news I want to give someone over the phone.”

 

“She’s…” Derek trailed off, letting just a little of the grief he felt out of its box. His eyes stung, caught between the prickle of threatening tears and the itch to flash red. “Shit,” he hissed into the phone, then drew in a deep breath as if steeling himself. “Alright. Give me a minute. I’ll… I’ll be there soon.”

 

Derek hung up before the sheriff would reply, figuring that the man would forgive him.

 

He grabbed his jacket from where he’d thrown it, picked up his phone, and headed back out to the Camaro. The sheriff’s department building, like most things in Beacon Hills, wasn’t too far away. He found himself a park as close to the station as he could, not worried about the distinctive car drawing notice. Derek wasn’t there covertly – he didn’t need to be sneaky for this.

 

He jogged into the building and gave his name to the woman at the front desk only to be waved through to the sheriff’s office.

 

Derek had seen the man before from a distance. Up close the man’s eyes were bluer, his face more weathered, and the strands of grey in his hair more obvious. There wasn’t a lot of physical similarity between Stiles and the sheriff. Even so, there was a thread of something to the man – a familiarity to his scent that almost made Derek feel as if he could trust him.

 

Almost.

 

“Have a seat, son,” the sheriff instructed him, indicating the chair opposite his desk.

 

Derek took the offered seat, perching himself on the edge and leaning forward, wrists braced on his knees. “You found Laura,” Derek said, cutting right to the chase the way he would if he was hearing the information for the first time. “You found her, and she’s…”

 

The sheriff’s eyes were sympathetic, his tone gentle. “I’m very sorry. We just ID’ed her today. I called as soon as I could find your number.”

 

“So she’s dead.” Derek confirmed. He ran a hand over his face, his fingers shaking. He didn’t have to fake his sadness. She’d been his only family for so long, his alpha, and losing her had felt like losing a part of himself. “How… how did it happen?”

 

“It was an accident, son.” The sheriff shook his head. “The evidence suggests she was out hiking in the preserve and ran across a mountain lion –“

 

“Jesus.”

 

“The result was…” The man sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I had to tell you this way. I wish I’d been able to give you better news, to tell you we found her alive and well, but the reality is I just can’t do that. I’m sorry, truly sorry for your loss.”

 

“I thought something had happened,” Derek confessed, dropping his hand and looking the sheriff in the face. “She told me she was coming back here for a few days. The council’s deciding what to do with our family’s land. She said she’d call. When she didn’t, I figured something had gone wrong. She _always_ calls.”

 

“And that’s why you came here?” the sheriff asked sympathetically.

 

Derek nodded. “That’s why I came here,” he confirmed, voice thick. “To find her.”

 

The memory of carrying her corpse in his arms made Derek squeeze his eyes shut. She’d been so cold, so lifeless – like a ragdoll. And she hadn’t smelled right. She’d smelled like death, like decay, not like _Laura_.

 

“Shit.” Derek hastily scrubbed away the tears forming in his eyes. “Sorry.”

 

“No need to apologise,” the sheriff said softly. He opened his mouth to say something more, interrupted when the door to the office suddenly swung open.

 

“Hey pops,” Stiles’ cheerful voice startled Derek into sitting up ramrod straight, his red-rimmed eyes flicking to the door where the teen hung from the frame, a paper bag in one hand. “You forgot your… uh…”

 

Stiles trailed off, looking back and forth between the sheriff at his desk and Derek in the chair opposite. He took in the scene a moment, a flush rising on his cheeks as he clearly realised he’d interrupted something important. Or maybe just as he recognised Derek.

 

“Stiles,” the sheriff sighed in exasperation.

 

“You forgot your dinner?” Stiles offered sheepishly, holding up the paper bag. “I saw it on the bench when I got home and, uh, thought I’d bring it to you.” He held out his hands in a ta-da motion, looking adorably awkward.

 

Derek stood. “I better get going,” he said, his voice still a little rough with emotion (and with the need to control the wolf in him so close to the object of his obsession). “If that’s everything you needed me for? I’ll arrange… I’ll deal with the arrangements later.”

 

“That’s fine,” the sheriff nodded. “You’ve had a shock. Go home, get some rest and give yourself some time.”

 

“Thanks,” Derek said, and started towards the door.

 

Stiles skipped out of the way, knocking into the wall in his haste to give Derek room.


	2. Chapter 2

Less than a minute and Stiles was feeling like the world’s biggest dickhead. Immediately after his dad’s disappointed explanation of what he’d interrupted he was out the door, using his coltishly long legs to quickly eat up the distance between him and Derek. He caught up to the man on the sidewalk about fifty feet away from the police station and skidded to a stop beside him, arms wheeling in an effort to keep balance.

 

“Derek! Hey, man, listen,” Stiles panted, not letting the man’s nonplussed expression stop him from voicing his apology. “I’m sorry, I had no idea – if I had, I totally wouldn’t have interrupted. I would have… I don’t know, but not that, ok? I’m sorry. It was really shitty of me and… Yeah. Sorry.”

 

Stiles shut his mouth then, his arms swinging awkwardly at his sides for want of something to do.

 

Derek just stared at him for a second, evidently just taking the time to absorb the word vomit that had just poured from Stiles’ mouth. “Don’t worry about it,” he said finally, his tone of voice giving Stiles flashbacks to that night in the woods. “You didn’t know.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I knew you knew about the, uh… But I didn’t know she was your sister. Um…” Stiles trailed off, burning with curiosity but aware that the question he wanted to ask would be wildly inappropriate.

 

“She was a werewolf,” Derek answered, seemingly reading his mind. Or maybe he’d just been expecting the question.

 

Derek glanced back at the station, then at Stiles again. He gestured casually down the street, then started walking. It took Stiles a moment to realise he was inviting the teen to walk with him.

 

“She was the alpha,” Derek said, after Stiles had jogged a couple of steps to catch up with him again.

 

“Like ‘alpha wolf’ alpha?” Stiles asked, a thousand more questions spawning in his mind. “As in leader of the pack alpha? Do you have a pack – crap, are they going to be mad when they find out what happened? Was the guy you, uh – was he part of your pack and just super-mad about his alpha dying?” A thought occurred and Stiles could have kicked himself. “Oh my god. Shit. Your sister _died_ and now some asshole kid is asking you stupid werewolf questions.”

 

Stiles could swear he saw the corner of Derek’s mouth twitch. “I don’t mind.”

 

“Are you kidding? If I were you I’d be wanting to sock me right in the face.”

 

“I’ve had some time.” Derek shrugged, glancing at Stiles with an inscrutable look on his face. “It hurts. Thinking about her. I don’t mind a distraction.” He stopped walking then, coming to a stop in front of a beautiful black car parked on the shoulder.

 

Stiles stopped a split second after, wondering if this was Derek’s car or if he’d just chosen a random spot on the sidewalk to stop. He was too busy thinking about the car to notice the older man looking at him until he reached out and tugged at one side of Stiles’ shirt collar.

 

“That healed well,” he commented, a fingertip just barely brushing against Stiles’ neck for barely a second before moving. The touch so quick that Stiles had to wonder if it had even happened.

 

“Uh, yeah. Looks like it wont scar or anything.” _Luckily_ , Stiles thought ruefully. Having three parallel scratch marks on his neck forever would have sucked. 

 

“The bruises,” Derek said, one swift hand reaching out to tug up the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt just enough to look for the bruising that had been starting to bloom there that night.

 

“Better,” Stiles yelped, and darted back a step out of range of Derek’s hands – a little affronted at the very presumptive grabbyness, though not too surprised given his first interaction with the man. “The ones on my back were worse, but they’re pretty much all gone now. Uh… thanks for asking?”

 

“Humans heal so slowly,” Derek commented, a small frown on his face. He seemed to dismiss the thought and shook his head. “Laura was my pack. There’s no one else.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles didn’t know what to say to that, stuck only with a sentiment that he knew was inadequate; “I’m sorry.”

 

“Peter, the other wolf, he killed her for the alpha power.” Derek paused, eyes locked on Stiles’ face as he said quietly; “I’m the alpha now.”

 

“So you… you knew the wolf from the forest?” Stiles asked, a bit awkwardly.

 

There was something familiar about the name ‘Peter’, like he should already know who that was.

 

Maybe he did know.

 

Stiles thought back to the night in the woods, remembering the way the nightmarish beast had transformed back into a man after death. The man, so much smaller than the beast he had been, had been horribly scarred. If Stiles had known him at all he definitely would have remembered those scars. Burn scars, shiny like wax.

 

The Hale house had burned down in a fire. Three survivors.

 

The realisation sent a bolt of shock through Stiles’ body just a split second before Derek replied stiffly;

 

“He was my uncle.”

 

“Wow. I-I… I just… Shit, you must hate me.” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face and mouth, eyes wide as he looked at Derek and thought about exactly everything this man had been through. No wonder he was a bit _off_ at times.

 

Derek shook his head. He reached out and put a hand casually on Stiles’ shoulder, fingers squeezing gently. Stiles hadn’t even noticed him moving within arm’s reach again.

 

“I don’t,” Derek said simply. “None of it was your fault.”

 

The fingers squeezed once more before removing themselves. Derek turned then, keys suddenly in hand, and unlocked the door to the sleek black car. Which answered the earlier question of whether it was his. He paused half way through climbing into the driver’s seat, looking out at Stiles with a look the teen couldn’t decipher.

 

“You don’t owe me for saving you,” he said, “but I still feel responsible. Alphas take care of people. If you need anything… Call me.”

 

“But,” Stiles blurted, somewhat flustered by the very unexpected declaration. “I don’t have your number?”

 

“Your dad does.”

 

With that, Derek seemed to decide the conversation was over. He slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. Barely a second later the engine purred to life, the black car gracefully peeling away and down the road.

 

For a moment Stiles just stood there gaping, not quite sure what exactly had happened. He’d intended to just apologise for being an insensitive ass and interrupting Derek’s meeting with the sheriff, and somehow that had turned into essentially being told that he had an alpha werewolf at his beck and call.

 

He really didn’t know how he should feel about that.

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing Stiles up close, actually talking to him, only intensified the urge to get close to him.

 

Derek spend the afternoon pacing back and forth from one end of the motel room to the other. He felt agitated and snappish, angered by any small annoyance that came his way – like buzz of the microwave in the next room over, or the sound of the housekeeper making her rounds. He felt caged. Confined by the room and by the need for restraint.

 

Come sun down he gave up on staying indoors and headed for the preserve.

 

Once there amongst the trees he shed his jacket and boots, leaving them in a neat pile to collect later, and ran. He shifted without thinking, feeling the change only in the way it made it easier to run faster, to leap over low obstacles and dodge around trees.

 

He came to a stop only when he reached the small lake his family used to swim in during the summers, childhood memories a painful momentary burn in his chest.

 

Derek stood on the pebbled lake shore, toes just barely touching the frigid water. Faint moonlight shone across the lake’s surface. He took a deep breath in, imagining bringing Stiles to the lake, and felt the shift melt away from him.

 

He could live here again, he thought, if Stiles wanted him to.

 

Sixteen was too young to move away from home without a parent’s permission, and no court would ever side against the sheriff of Beacon Hills in an emancipation case. Still, two years wasn’t too much time to wait before they could live together. Not if Derek got to keep him forever, and definitely not if he got to actually touch him in the meantime.

 

Thinking about touch, Derek returned to where he’d left his boots and jacket. He left his car parked by the preserve and walked to the Stilinski house on foot.

He’d found the perch the week before, a spot hidden in shadow that gave the perfect view into the teen’s bedroom window. He settled there now, the agitated feeling gnawing at his bones melting away at the sight of Stiles sitting at his desk.

 

Derek sat in silence, content to watch the boy go about his business. He watched as Stiles did homework, got distracted by something online, then remembered what he was supposed to be doing and went back to doing homework only to stop and start texting on his phone. Eventually the boy stood up, stretched, and sloped out of the room. After a minute Derek heard the shower start, and after a minute more when he heard the echoing cascade dull to the sound of water on skin he figured it was safe to sneak into the room itself.

 

It was the work of moments to slip in through the window, now that he had the trick of it.

 

Derek shut the window again behind him, careful not to let it squeak.

 

A quick glance at the still-open laptop told him what subject Stiles had been working on, a half-finished essay called up on the screen. The phone Stiles had left behind on the desk lit up with a new text, his friend Scott asking if he’d seen something or other on youtube, complete with a string of emojis. Derek shook his head and moved on.

 

He ran a hand over the pillow at the head of the bed, twitched a corner of the bedspread just a touch straighter, and bent down to smell the comforter.

 

It hadn’t been washed since the last time he’d been in the boy’s bedroom, which meant it smelled mostly like Stiles but with a hint of his own scent in the mix. A combination that made Derek’s stomach warm.

 

He ducked down further to check the space beneath the bed. It was mostly empty, only a few lonely dust bunnies, a couple of stray socks and a long-forgotten book resting on the floor beneath the bed.

 

Derek got onto his hands and knees, then flattened himself against the floor and rolled. When he came to a stop he was lying on his back underneath the bed, looking up at the wooden slats that held the mattress. He glanced down at his feet, pleased to see that the whole of him fit comfortably underneath the bed, the comforter hanging down just enough that he’d be made invisible from any part of the room.

 

Unless Stiles happened to actually look under the bed, it would be as if he wasn’t even there.

 

Derek heard the sounds of the shower cut off. He listened, intently focused on every little sound he could hear – the shush of cloth, the faint slap of feet against tile. Stiles moved from the bathroom, across the hall and back into the bedroom. Derek turned his head and saw the boy’s bare feet and ankles pass by the side of the bed.

 

The bedroom door shut.

 

The towel was dropped to the floor.

 

A minute later and Stiles’ pyjama-clad ankles breezed past to the desk, where he checked his phone before sitting back down in front of the laptop. The clicking of keys started up and Derek gave a silent, content sigh. He could, and would, happily stay where he was for hours.

 

He zoned out – the rhythmic tapping sound of the computer keys oddly soothing when paired with the scent of Stiles’ clean, freshly washed body – and only snapped back to full attention when the room light suddenly turned off.

 

Stiles padded across the darkened room and to the bed. He flopped down onto the mattress with a sigh, the bed frame creaking ever so slightly with the change in weight. A sound that a human wouldn’t even notice.

 

Derek noticed.

 

Frozen beneath the bed he stared at the ankle he could see dangling off the edge of the bed, fingertips itching with the urge to reach out and touch. He genuinely didn’t know if he would have been able to hold himself back if Stiles hadn’t shifted on the bed, pulling the errant limb out of view.

 

He could hear the shift of the mattress, the sound of the bedcovers being kicked down further. Stiles reached over to the bedside table and grabbed something from the top drawer, the sound of a cap popping open and the smell of cheap lube telling Derek exactly what he had grabbed. A moment later he heard the faint, wet slap of flesh on flesh and bit his lip to keep himself from making any sound.

 

God, he wanted to be able to see what was happening, but for now scent and sound would have to be enough.

 

The soft sighs that Stiles made were enough to send Derek’s heart racing, his teeth and claws a threatening tingle in his gums and the tips of his fingers. Quiet noises, so quiet, so small – the opposite of the boy’s personality. Derek wondered if he’d be louder with a partner, if he could turn those tiny bitten-off sounds into proper moans.

 

The scent of Stiles’ arousal was intoxicating, ten times better than his normal base scent. It made Derek’s body respond in kind, his blood pulsing until he was fully hard, erection trapped by the unforgiving denim of his jeans.

 

He couldn’t risk opening his fly to relieve the pressure, couldn’t reach down and take himself in hand like he wanted to. Zippers were loud, and even over the sound of his own heavy panting Stiles would know something was wrong.

 

Derek could hear it when Stiles’ motions became a bit more erratic, every second breath a bitten-off noise.

 

Then finally a faint, wet sound – imperceptible to the human ear. The bitter-salty smell of come saturated the air, forcing Derek to bite down on his own hand so as not to make a sound.

 

Stiles’ heavy breathing started to slow, his pulse falling back into its normal resting range.

 

Derek expected him to move then, to get up and find something to clean himself with. Or even just to reach over to the bedside table where a convenient box of Kleenex sat. Instead there was a pause, and then the slick, wet, and unmistakeable noise of _licking_.

 

Derek bit down harder on his own flesh, squeezing his eyes shut. His free hand slid down to squeeze himself through his jeans, the touch not nearly enough to ease the ache.

 

Stiles was licking himself clean, tasting his own come and sucking the fluid from his fingers.

 

The thought made Derek want to kiss him to get the taste from his mouth. It made him think about Stiles licking up Derek’s come instead, the delicate tip of his tongue leaving hot, wet trails against Derek’s skin.

 

It was almost too much.

 

The visceral, sudden _need_ to shed his human skin consumed the werewolf under the bed.

 

Derek struggled against the urge, common sense warring against instinct. Somehow the shift hiding beneath his skin felt bigger than before, different from the usual easy transition from human to beta form. He knew if he changed now it would be different than usual, though he wasn’t sure how. He just knew that now was definitely not the time.

 

Thoughts of Peter’s alpha form held him back. He couldn’t turn into that, not here. Not only would that form be too big to hide under the bed, but it would definitely scare Stiles into wanting nothing to do with him.

 

 _Or maybe that’s because you’re a pervert hiding under his bed_ , Laura’s voice whispered. _What happened, Der? You never got this bad before._

 

 _You were here before_ , Derek accused silently.

 

Laura had always been there to talk him down, to remind him that there was a line somewhere and he shouldn’t cross it. She’d always tolerated his obsessive nature, had understood his need to watch and observe the object of his affection. She’d been a good alpha for their broken pack of two, protecting him from himself even as she understood why he needed to keep looking.

 

She’d understood why he needed to find the right one, why he couldn’t just be normal and date the way other people did.

 

By the time he got himself properly under control again Stiles was asleep and Derek was once again soft in his jeans. Battling the wolf within left little room for arousal.

 

Cautiously, listening avidly for any sign that he boy might be waking up, Derek slid out from under the bed.

 

He got to his feet slowly, looking down at the sleeping teen. Faint ambient light from outside lit up Stiles’ skin, making him look a shade paler than usual. His body was relaxed, one arm up over his head, the other resting lightly on his belly.

 

Derek breathed in deep. He could still smell traces of come in the air, mixed with saliva and lube.

 

Slowly, agonisingly so, and as gently as he could manage, Derek reached out and lifted Stiles’ hand from his belly. He crouched down beside the bed to make it easier, not wanting to have to lift the boy’s hand too high and risk the movement waking him.

 

The boy’s long, slender fingers were still faintly sticky.

 

Derek bent down, his eyes locked on Stiles’ peacefully sleeping face, and parted his lips to softly suck the tip of the boy’s index finger into his mouth. He resisted the urge to close his eyes in bliss at the taste that burst on his tongue. A complex flavour layered with sweat, spit, lube, and come – all of it tangled up in the taste of Stiles’ skin.

 

Derek gently swirled his tongue around the digit, sucking a little more of it into his mouth. He nursed on the fingertip until all he could taste was the base flavour of the boy’s skin, clean of anything else. Then he reluctantly let the finger slip from his mouth and wrapped his lips around the next one instead.

 

He repeated the process with each finger until finally he let the tip of Stiles’ pinkie fall from his lips and reluctantly lowered Stiles’ hand back down onto the boy’s stomach.

 

Derek stood up, head tilted slightly while he looked down at the sleeping teen.

 

His lips were open, Derek noticed. Only slightly open, his bottom lip shiny as though he’d licked it in his sleep.

 

Derek reached down and gently swiped at Stiles’ bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, feeling the soft, damp skin. He lifted his thumb up to his own mouth, sucking the faint traces of the boy’s saliva from his skin.

 

He was going to have to find a way to get closer to Stiles while the teen was awake.

 

Watching him, touching him like this while he was sleeping, wasn’t enough.

 

* * *

 

 

In retrospect, Stiles’ first reaction to hearing that Mark Lyons had broken his ankle should not have been a fist-pump and a gleeful shout of ‘yes!’ He felt bad about it the second the word had left his mouth, and not just because of the dirty stares of his classmates. To be fair, he hadn’t actually been reacting to the broken ankle itself… just the consequences of it.

 

Lacrosse tryouts had gone about as well as expected while dealing with bruising and stiffness. Scott had been absolutely giddy to have made it onto the team, even though he was technically only a benchwarmer. Stiles, on the other hand, hadn’t quite made the cut. Though, Finstock had said, he was the best out of the bad ones, so if anyone dropped out he could take their place. (He supposed.)

 

Mark had been first string.

 

So his broken ankle meant that not only would someone already on the team be bumped up, but a position would now be open. A position that Stiles would gladly take, even if the only times he’d really get to play would be during practice.

 

He confirmed it with Finstock that afternoon, grinning at the coach’s grumpy assertion that he’d be expected at practice.

 

Though that did pose a slight problem.

 

Stiles had finally found out why the Jeep seemed to be going through so much gas in such a short time. There was a leak – an actual honest to crack running the full length of the thing – in the fuel tank. A leak that his dad had caught him trying to fix with duct tape.

 

The sheriff had confiscated Stiles’ keys and had the Jeep towed to the local repair shop, where an estimate had put the repairs at something way out of Stiles’ price range. He could pay it off in instalments, the shop owner had said, but that just meant he wouldn’t be getting the Jeep back until it was all paid off.

 

Which meant that Stiles was taking the bus for the foreseeable future while he scraped up enough cash to pay for the repairs.

 

And taking the bus while hauling his lacrosse gear around was going to get very frustrating very shortly. Especially given the ten minute walk to and from the bus stop.

 

Still, the next day Stiles dutifully loaded himself up and marched out the front door.

 

He was half way to the bus stop when he saw something move in the corner of his eye. Half-expecting to see absolutely nothing, Stiles turned his head to look and nearly tripped over when he saw the dog on the other side of the street.

 

It was massive. A huge, black monster. And it was just trotting along down the street, no collar or owner in sight, keeping pace with him on the other side of the road.

 

Stiles stared, his feet coming to a stop all on their own while he watched the dog.

 

Across the street the dog stopped too.

 

Stiles blinked and took a step.

 

The dog took a step too.

 

“Oh my God I’m going to die,” Stiles whispered, horrified.

 

The dog sneezed, then shook its head.

 

Slowly, cautiously, Stiles started walking again. He kept glancing across the street, making sure that the huge black dog was still keeping the same distance. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if it looked like it was going to go for him… run screaming into the nearest front yard, probably. The thing looked like it was big enough to eat him for dinner and still have room for dessert.

 

When he got to the bus stop the dog sat down on the sidewalk across the street and just stared at him. Discomfited, Stiles stared back until the bus arrived and blocked the mystery canine from view.

 

By the time he thought to look for it from the window, it was gone.

 

When Stiles got to school he was soon too distracted by classes (and people) to think too much about the dog. While swapping out textbooks between classes he was pleasantly surprised to find a pack of peanut m&ms in his locker that he must have left there at some point and forgotten about. He couldn’t actually remember buying peanut m&ms at all recently, but the best before date implied that they were a recent purchase. Stiles had shrugged, figuring that either it would come back to him or it wouldn’t. Either way he had a delicious snack to munch on.

 

Towards the end of the day Stiles found he had a decision to make.

 

Either he could catch the bus home as usual and get started on his homework for the day (or, more accurately, ignore his homework until late that night). Or he could stay behind a bit until everyone else was gone and use the empty lacrosse field for a bit of solo practice.

 

After all, if he was actually on the team he’d better make sure he was actually able to keep up during practice.

 

Or during games, on the off-chance he ever got to play.

 

In the end it wasn’t much of a decision.

 

Stiles said goodbye to Scott, to Danny who politely nodded in response, and to Lydia who completely ignored his existence as usual. Then he headed to the locker room to gear up, throwing a heads-up to the janitor he ran into on the way so Paul wouldn’t accidentally lock him out.

 

It always paid to know the cleaning staff – Stiles knew that from his dad’s work. They knew where everything was, including handy shortcuts, and often had access to keys for places he normally wouldn’t be able to get into (or out of).

 

He spent a good fifteen minutes warming up on the field, running laps and doing stretches, painfully aware that he wasn’t nearly as fit as he’d like to be… But also aware that overall he was too lazy to try as hard as he should to change that.

 

Once he was warm enough that he’d started sweating, his muscles loose and relaxed, he started in on solo drills. He was just getting into it, in the perfect zone of focus that meant the ball would fly exactly where he wanted it to go, when a flash of black in the corner of his eye distracted him.

 

Stiles automatically turned his head to look and somehow tripped over his own feet. He fell face first in a flailing, graceless sprawl, stick and ball both flying in separate directions.

 

Mocking laughter made his shoulders tense.

 

Stiles sighed against the grass, then levered himself up and back onto his feet, ignoring the laughter as best he could. He brushed himself off, then went to collect his lacrosse stick. When he looked for the ball he found it being held by the still chuckling Jackson, the other teen carrying his own stick and a sports bag slung over one shoulder.

 

“What’s the matter, Stilinski?” Jackson asked derisively. “Having trouble with your footing?”

 

“Jackson,” Stiles greeted the other boy with a sarcastic smile. “Observant as ever.”

 

“You’re practicing alone and you still manage to fall over,” Jackson continued, ignoring Stiles’ comment. He dropped his sports bag casually to the ground and lazily tossed the ball in the air, catching it with his stick in an effortless motion. “I’ll never figure out why Coach decided to let you on the team. You and your loser friend McCall, you’re just going to drag us down.”

 

Stiles shrugged, figuring that his practice time was over. “Hot air balloons need sandbags,” he replied, and eyed the way Jackson was holding his stick. “Maybe we’re ballast and Coach thinks he needs us to make sure you don’t fly away thanks to all that hot air you’re filled with.”

 

Jackson’s eyebrows lowered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he digested the insult. Stiles had a strange moment where his mind moved too fast for his body – he saw exactly what the other boy was going to do, but couldn’t get himself to react fast enough.

 

Jackson was already whipping his arm back when a huge mound of black fur streaked across the field, headed straight towards them.

 

Distantly Stiles noted that the black streak was the dog from that morning, and spared a thought to wonder that it had somehow managed to follow him to school. It was much bigger up close, his too-fast brain noted even as the dog leapt towards Jackson – it’s huge jaws gaping open to expose brilliant white teeth.

 

The dog leaped and Jackson threw himself backwards with a yell, arms flying up to cover his head.

 

And, incidentally, offering up a perfect target for the dog to chomp on. Only the dog’s jaws didn’t close on Jackson’s arm.

 

Stiles blinked, watching the dog snatch Jackson’s lacrosse stick clean out of the other teen’s grip.

 

It padded back and forth on the grass in front of Jackson, who looked just about ready to piss himself in fear, growling around the lacrosse stick in its mouth. A warning sound, Stiles thought. A dare, almost. A sound to tell Jackson exactly what would happen if he dared to challenge the animal in front of him.

 

Nobody in their right mind would challenge the animal in front of him.

 

Jackson seemed to agree. He got to his feet slowly, inching his way backward with every movement. He was smart enough to stay low, hunched over a little to make himself look unthreatening.

 

 _Or_ , Stiles thought to himself dumbly as he watched Jackson grope blindly for his sports bag, _because he’s a fucking idiot with stupid priorities_.

 

Jackson grabbed the bag and straightened.

 

The dog growled warningly, it’s lips peeling back to further expose its teeth.

 

Jackson ran.

 

He bolted, sprinting so fast that it seemed like Stiles blinked and he was gone… Leaving him alone with the massive black dog.

 

Stiles blinked dumbly, not sure what the hell he could even do in this situation. Everything he could remember reading about encounters with angry dogs said that you shouldn’t run or it would chase you – only Jackson had run and it was still there.

 

Nervous – caught in the throes of indecision – Stiles just stood there and stared at the animal.

 

As he watched the dog dropped the lacrosse stick and instead went for the ball lying forgotten on the grass. It picked up the ball delicately with its huge teeth, then turned around slowly to face Stiles. It took one step forward, then another, its huge paws silent on the grass. It padded all the way up to Stiles and dropped the ball at his feet.

 

Then sat and looked up at him expectantly.

 

Stiles stared, mind boggling.

 

“Are you for fucking real!?” he blurted, his mouth moving before his brain registered that shouting at the big huge dog with the big huge teeth maybe wasn’t the greatest idea.

 

The dog cocked its head to the side and whined softly, plumed tail thumping twice against the grass in a pathetically hopeful way.

 

Though now that Stiles had the chance to look at the animal up close (without being terrified for his – or Jackson’s – life) he couldn’t help but notice that it looked more like a wolf than any domestic breed of dog.

 

For one thing it was too big by far, standing as tall as Stiles’ hip at the shoulder. Its paws were huge, its claws unusually long and sharp-looking. And though it wasn’t quite as shaggy as the wolves Stiles remembered from nature shows and the internet, it had a distinctly wolfish look to its face. Pointed muzzle, forward-facing eyes that were slightly smaller and much more intelligent than the average dog’s.

 

Much more intelligent.

 

“Oh my God,” Stiles whispered, leaping to a sudden and ridiculous conclusion. “Derek?”

 

The wolf sneezed and shook its head, tail thumping happily against the ground.

 

Stiles took that as confirmation. He gaped. “Can – are you…?” He ran a hand over his buzzed-short hair, tugging a little on the strands just to make sure he hadn’t passed out and was dreaming. “Can all werewolves turn into real wolves?” he asked in an absurd whisper.

 

Derek the wolf’s tail stopped thumping. He looked at Stiles, his communication obviously limited by his form, just staring at the teen as if he were psychically willing him the answer.

 

“Ok, that’s a no…?” Stiles guessed. He’d take the tail-wag he got in response to that as a yes. “This is so fucking weird. What is my life? Hey – “ Stiles frowned suddenly, “have you been following me? As a wolf. Have you been following me as a wolf? Because I totally saw you this morning, don’t even try to deny it.”

 

Derek stood. He shook himself, fur rippling.

 

“Alright, whatever. Don’t answer.” A beat. “I guess I should, uh, thank you for stopping Jackson. He was totally going to whip that ball at me and I don’t think I’d have been fast enough to dodge so… you saved me from another bruise at least.”

 

Stiles chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, thinking. He’d intended on getting in more practice than this, but he doubted he’d be able to concentrate well enough to actually get any drills done. Not after discovering that Beacon Hills’ local werewolf was capable of actually turning into a wolf.

 

“Guess I should… go get changed and head for the bus,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “If I hurry I might be able to catch the next one before I’m stuck waiting around for another half hour…”

 

Derek the wolf whuffed – a noise not quite like a bark – and trotted away. Not in the direction of the woods, but towards the school. More specifically, towards the boy’s locker room.

 

Stiles hesitated a moment, then shrugged and jogged after the wolf. He wasn’t sure it was the smartest thing to be following a werewolf into an enclosed space, but the memory of Derek saying that he felt responsible for Stiles played in his mind. And, to be fair, Derek had just saved him from having to deal with Jackson’s douchebaggery.

 

And after saving Stiles from his crazy, rampaging uncle it didn’t make sense for Derek to turn around and kill him now.

 

With that in mind, Stiles entered the locker room at a steady jog, slowing to a walk once he was through the door. He looked around, expecting to see a wolf, and stopped dead when he instead saw a flash of skin.

 

Derek was standing by the benches, his back towards the teen. He’d already pulled on a pair of dark jeans but the rest of him, including his feet, remained bare.

 

Stiles’ eyes wandered across the man’s broad shoulders, watching the flex of his muscles as he moved. He had a tattoo high up between his shoulder blades – the black symbol stark against otherwise unblemished skin. Stiles’ gaze trekked down to Derek’s hips, where his jeans hung low enough to see the dimples at the base of his spine. He was staring at those dimples when Derek turned, which suddenly changed the view to the trail of hair leading down into his jeans.

 

Stiles gulped and flicked his eyes up a bit. A mistake which had him staring briefly at Derek’s chest before he managed to focus on the man’s face.

 

“It’s new,” Derek said, as if he were answering a question.

 

“What?” Stiles replied dumbly, a little dazzled by the very well-built naked torso on display right in front of him.

 

“I couldn’t always turn into a full wolf,” Derek explained, half-turning to grab a dark grey Henley from the bench.

 

He must have left his clothes there when he changed, Stiles realised. Obviously he couldn’t wear them as a wolf. They’d either trap him or wind up ripped to shreds. So he’d have had to strip down before he changed shape.

 

“You couldn’t?” Stiles asked, feeling a bit slow still. He couldn’t help but look at Derek’s bare feet. They were pale and slender, nails neatly trimmed, a light dusting of hair on his toes. “What changed?”

 

Derek shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I have a stronger anchor.”

 

“Anchor?” Stiles echoed. He felt like they were having a conversation where he only knew half the words, like Derek was speaking a language that Stiles wasn’t fully fluent in.

 

“Werewolves need anchors.” Derek told him. He bent over and casually stuffed his feet into a pair of boots that Stiles hadn’t even noticed sitting on the floor. “Something to help with our control, to keep us human when we don’t want to change. Young wolves spend their lives fighting against the shift.”

 

“But if you have a powerful enough anchor…” Stiles mused, starting to catch on a bit.

 

Derek nodded. “You don’t have to fight it.”

 

“So you can change into a real wolf because you’re not afraid of losing yourself. You’re not scared of it, so you’re not subconsciously holding yourself back?”

 

“Maybe,” Derek agreed. He looked at Stiles, one eyebrow quirking slightly upwards. “You going to get changed?”

 

Stiles startled. He looked down at himself, realising he was still in his lacrosse gear. “Oh. Uh… yeah.”

 

“I didn’t see your car,” Derek said as he walked casually towards the exit. “I’m parked across the road. I’ll drive you home.”

 

* * *

 

 

Derek sat in his car, sunglasses on, watching the school from the corner of his eye as he waited for Stiles to show. He wasn’t sure if the boy would take him up on his offer, but he hoped. He was fairly certain the boy didn’t see him as a threat. It would be nice for Stiles to get to know him a bit more, to see him as something else.

 

He’d smelled the boy’s flicker of arousal at the sight of Derek’s shirtless body. It had made him preen inwardly, pleased that the teenager found him attractive.

 

It would’ve made things harder – much harder – if he hadn’t.

 

Derek tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering if he shouldn’t track down that arrogant little shit from earlier. The one who’d threatened his boy with violence. The part of him that was more wolf than man wanted to track the kid down and tear out his stomach with his claws. The more rational, human side of him was aware that Stiles probably wouldn’t approve of such extreme measures for a small-time schoolyard bully.

 

He was thinking about ways he could go about a smaller revenge when he finally saw Stiles emerge from the school. He watched the boy walk over towards the car, backpack dangling from one hand, and supressed the urge to smile in victory.

 

Stiles was going to be sitting in his car. Sharing his space. Close enough that Derek would be able to smell him properly without anything else getting in the way… And if he was lucky the boy’s scent would linger after he was gone.

 

Stiles walked right up to the Camaro, hesitated only a moment, then pulled the passenger side door open and slipped inside.

 

“Um, thanks for this,” he said after he’d pulled the door shut behind him.

 

“Seatbelt,” Derek said by way of reply. “Your bag can go in the back.”

 

Stiles’ fingers tightened briefly on the straps of the backpack. After a moment’s pause he half-turned to shove the bag over into the back seat. He pulled on his seatbelt, then raised his eyebrows at Derek as if asking if he were happy.

 

Derek nodded at him. He started the car and pulled smoothly away from the curb.

 

Normally he’d drive a little over the speed limit, impatient to get wherever it was he was going. With Stiles in the car, the boy’s scent made stronger by sweat, Derek wasn’t feeling impatient at all.

 

“So…” Stiles started, once the car was rumbling down the street properly. “Not to be rude or anything but… _were_ you following me?”

 

Derek let the question hang in the air a moment, thinking about how he should reply. “I was checking on you,” he answered finally, and a little stiffly.

 

“Why?” Stiles asked, clearly baffled.

 

“You feel like pack.”

 

Derek could feel the boy staring at him, curiosity adding a delicious zing to his scent. Stiles cocked his head to the side a little, his mouth slightly open as he thought. “Is it because you’re the alpha now?” he asked, proving once more exactly how _quick_ he was. “You said you feel responsible for me – you feel like you have to protect me?”

 

Derek shrugged in response.

 

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t even _know_ me. I’m just… just some kid you rescued in the woods. And let’s be honest, rescuing me was probably just a side-effect of wanting to make sure your psycho uncle didn’t go on a murder spree through the town, right? So, I don’t… I don’t get why you’d even care, man. It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“It does,” Derek insisted, hands tightening on the wheel at the implication that Stiles didn’t think he was worthy of attention.

 

“No it doesn’t!” Stiles cried, throwing his hands up in emphasis.

 

“It does,” Derek repeated. He shifted as if uncomfortable, though internally he was quite pleased at the opportunity to tell Stiles some of what he felt. “You’re brave. You are or you wouldn’t have been in the woods at night. You’re smart, you catch on to things quickly. I don’t have to explain and you already understand. You care about people or you wouldn’t have given a shit about interrupting me and your dad that time.”

 

“And what,” Stiles started sarcastically. “Those are just great qualities for a packmate? Oh.” He paused, now looking sheepish. “Uh, okay. Okay, yeah, I guess I can see how you’d – and especially since you don’t have a pack anymore – are you… are you asking me to be in your pack, dude?”

 

“I feel like you are,” Derek told him honestly.

 

“Oh.” Stiles fell silent, staring at the dashboard as he thought. He was silent long enough that Derek was almost at the turn that would take them onto the boy’s street when he spoke again. “I don’t even know you.”

 

Derek took his sunglasses off and hooked them onto his shirt. He looked away from the road so he could meet the boy’s eyes. “You could get to know me.”

 

The boy stared at him in open surprise, mouth parted slightly in a way that made Derek want to kiss him.

 

“Get to know me, Stiles.”

 

Stiles closed his mouth and swallowed nervously, a flicker of arousal adding yet another layer to his scent. “Okay,” he agreed.

 

Derek smiled.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow accepting a ride home from Derek Hale turned into sitting on a bench in a little-used park with Derek Hale with a bag of takeout and a jumbo-sized coke. Stiles honestly wasn’t sure what to make of it, though he definitely wasn’t complaining about the free meal or the ride in the extremely swanky car.

 

Plus there was a part of him that couldn’t help but appreciate the chance to hang out with someone so clearly out of his league.

 

Derek was, Stiles could admit to himself, incredibly attractive.

 

He had a classic male beauty of the sort that instantly drew the eye, cheekbones that could cut glass and a strong jawline emphasised by just the faintest hint of stubble. His body was perfectly sculpted, the sort of body that only existed in magazines, skin flawless and free of freckles or imperfections.

 

He was the sort of person that Stiles might dream about now and then – in between fantasies of petite strawberry blondes – only to wake up sticky and in need of fresh underwear.

 

Sitting next to him, actually talking to him, Stiles felt at least twice as awkward and three times as unattractive as usual.

 

He hadn’t even thought to shower before he’d followed Derek to his car. He probably stank to high heaven and Derek was just too polite to say anything.

 

“So just what can a werewolf do anyway?” Stiles asked, thinking about body odours and the potential of werewolves having heightened senses. It seemed likely. Real wolves had amazing noses, so why wouldn’t werewolves have at least some of that lupine sense of smell too?

 

Derek was in the middle of sipping from his own coke. He glanced at Stiles, lips still wrapped around the straw, then swallowed and put the coke down on the bench beside him. “You know about shifting,” he said, and held out a hand to show Stiles the way his claws seemed to grow out over his fingernails.

 

Stiles watched the change in fascination, aware that Derek had purposefully slowed it down to give him a better look. His fingers twitched and he practically had to sit on his hands to prevent himself from just grabbing the older man’s hand to inspect those wickedly sharp claws.

 

“The full moon makes us want to shift,” Derek told him, “but we don’t have to. And like I said, most wolves only manage the beta shift. They can’t become a wolf.”

 

“Beta shift,” Stiles repeated thoughtfully, a small frown creasing his brow. “Like in the woods?”

 

Derek nodded. “We see better in the dark. Hear better. Smell things better. Even in human form.”

 

Stiles felt his face flush slightly at that, realising that Derek would indeed be getting treated to the fantastic funk of unwashed armpits after exercise.

 

“And,” Derek continued as if he hadn’t seen Stiles’ blush, “we heal fast.”

 

He used one of his claws to slice open the palm of his other hand. Blood welled and dripped from the cut, but when Derek used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe it away the cut was gone. As if it had never existed.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles choked, grabbing Derek’s hand to inspect the blood-smeared but cut free palm. “More like instantly! Shit, that’s amazing. And how sharp are those claws? Could you cut anything with them or are they better for soft materials? I mean you can do a lot of damage with a knife and you’ve practically got five tiny knives strapped to your fingers but are they strong enough to cut bone or would they just kinda get stuck?”

 

“They can cut bone.” The claws on Derek’s hand retracted, disappearing back to wherever they’d come from while Stiles watched. He didn’t take his hand back though, just letting Stiles turn it over to examine his fingernails. “We’re a lot stronger than humans,” Derek added.

 

“How strong?” Stiles demanded, the question popping out before he could think better of it.

 

Derek grinned at him, exposing disarmingly white, charming bunny teeth. “Strong enough to lift the front half of the Camaro.”

 

Stiles gaped. “No way.”

 

“I could punch through concrete.”

 

“You’re fucking with me,” Stiles accused. When Derek just shrugged and went back to sipping on his coke, Stiles’ jaw popped open. “ _No way_. Oh man, you have _got_ to show me that sometime.”

 

By the time Derek finally dropped Stiles at home he’d learned that he older man had been born a werewolf, that most of his family had been wolves, and that he’d lived the last six years in New York with only his sister for a pack. He’d also learned that Derek liked cherry coke better than original, liked pickles on his burgers, and ate about twice as much as Stiles did.

 

“Faster metabolism,” Derek had explained when Stiles had mentioned it.

 

It made sense, given the healing and the enhanced strength. All that energy had to come from somewhere.

 

Stiles had learned that Derek wasn’t much of a talker, generally more comfortable listening. From subtly snooping while in the car Stiles had discovered that he was staying at a motel on the edges of town. And, based on the number of take-out menus on the back seat, he probably wasn’t much of a one for cooking. He wondered whether he shouldn’t invite the guy over for a meal sometime, then immediately shut that idea down. It was one thing to hang out with the guy in a park nobody ever went to – inviting him over to his house came with the risk of nosy neighbours reporting the visit to his dad. Then his dad would want to know why Derek Hale was hanging out with his teenaged son and it wasn’t as if Stiles could just tell him.

 

“Hey dad,” Stiles muttered as he sorted out his homework in order of most to least interesting, “you’ve met Derek, right? That hot older guy who drives a crazy-expensive sports car and kind of looks like a serial killer had a baby with a supermodel? I just invited him over to dinner because he’s a werewolf who kind of adopted me when he saved my life. Nothing weird about that.”

 

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, as if he wouldn’t be able to smell the sex pheromones.”

 

He froze suddenly. Werewolves had a heightened sense of smell. Exactly how heightened? Supposedly wolves could smell fear – could they smell other emotions too? Could werewolves smell if you were into them?

 

“Oh shit.”

 

Stiles had spent at least part of that car ride thinking about Derek’s incredibly sexy body. So not only had he been subjecting the poor guy to his after-exercise stink but he’d also been emanating inappropriate teenage hormones all over the guy’s leather interior.

 

Stiles groaned and covered his face with his hands.

 

“Fuck, this is worse than the time in sixth grade when I accidentally called Lydia my future wife.”

 

He was convinced that announcement (made in the middle of class) was what had cost him her affection. She’d barely paid any attention to him since.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek resisted the urge to snuffle against the leather where Stiles had been sitting. As he’d hoped, the interior of the Camaro was saturated with the boy’s scent. It wouldn’t last, but he’d enjoy it for every moment that it did. If he closed his eyes he could almost feel the teen still sitting there in the passenger seat.

 

Derek breathed in deep, savouring the little hints of arousal that told him his interest wasn’t one sided.

 

He’d gone down that road once before and it hadn’t ended well.

 

 _Understatement_ , Laura’s voice sing-songed in his head.

 

With Stiles it was going to be different.

 

Reluctantly, aware that he’d been sitting in his parked car outside the motel for too long already, Derek got out of the Camaro. He hated to leave that smell behind, but reasoned that he’d be outside the teenager’s window soon enough. Then, in the morning, he’d walk the boy to the bus stop again.

 

Maybe this time he could even walk beside him, Derek thought giddily. Now that Stiles knew about (and wouldn’t be frightened by) Derek’s newly discovered wolf form.

 

Maybe he could encourage the boy to touch him while he was in that form? To pet him and sink those long fingers into the coarse fur on his wolf’s shoulders. After all, most people thought nothing of petting an animal.

 

The idea kept him warm through the night, a fire burning in his chest as he watched the boy through his bedroom window. It was after midnight by the time Stiles was asleep deeply enough that Derek felt comfortable climbing in through his window.

 

He slipped silently into the boy’s room and crossed carefully to stand by the side of the bed, looking down at the sleeping teenager.

 

Derek brushed gentle fingers against Stiles’ buzzed-short hair. He leaned down until his mouth was hovering close to the teen’s and they were breathing the same air. It was intimate, tasting the air from his lungs, close enough to count the boy’s eyelashes. Derek held his breath and closed the gap between them, brushing his lips against Stiles’ slightly-open mouth.

 

He wanted to do more, wanted to lick his way into that plush, open mouth, but he didn’t want to risk Stiles waking. Not yet.

 

Not until he trusted Derek a little more.

 

In the morning he waited outside the Stilinski house in full view of the front door. He sat on his haunches in his wolf form, patiently waiting for Stiles to emerge from the house for his walk to the bus stop.

 

He didn’t have to wait long.

 

Stiles barged out the front door exactly on time, paused to shut and lock the door behind him, then stopped abruptly on the front step.

 

Derek’s tail wagged involuntarily against the grass of the Stilinski’s front lawn. He stood and cocked his head to the side expectantly at the boy.

 

Stiles blinked at him a moment, then shook his head. “Seriously?” he muttered, seemingly to himself. Then he squared his shoulders and walked across the lawn towards Derek. “So you’re walking me to school, huh?”

 

Derek made a soft noise in agreement that he refused to think of as a bark. Of course he was walking Stiles to school – or at least as far as the bus stop. He’d have offered to drive him to and from school while his Jeep was in the shop, but he wasn’t sure Stiles would have accepted.

 

“You couldn’t have picked me up in your car or something?”

 

Derek huffed, keeping pace with the boy as he walked down the street.

 

“You didn’t think of it, did you?” Stiles asked, as if Derek had actually replied. “You know some of us who happen to be human don’t enjoy having to take the bus to school. Just a hint, you know, in case you’re planning on hanging around tomorrow morning too. Plus, you need a set of human vocal chords to have a conversation, dude. It’s going to be very one sided if I have to do all the talking.” A beat. “Unless you like me talking your ear off, in which case let me tell you all about the horror that is Ms Conningham’s newly orange hair and just how distracting it is when you’re trying to learn about American History…”

 

 _I like that you talk_ , Derek thought at the boy, though he couldn’t actually say so while in this form.

 

He liked listening to Stiles’ voice, liked hearing what he thought. It meant he didn’t have to rely on guesses and observation alone to learn about him.

 

At the stop Derek sat by Stiles’ side until the bus showed up, then stood on all fours to reluctantly watch the teen board. Stiles gave him a last grin as the doors closed, and a little wave through the window. Only when the bus was gone from view did he turn and trot back down the street.

 

He hadn’t slept much the night before and he knew from experience that sleeping in Stiles’ bed while the boy was at school would be far more restful than catnapping in his motel room.

 

 _And you love the thought of being naked in his bed_ , Laura’s voice echoed dryly in the back of his head. _Perv_.

 

Derek shook his head. He ran the perimeter of the Stilinski’s backyard, checking that none of the neighbours were looking through their back windows. Once he was sure he wouldn’t be seen he changed forms, bones and muscles rearranging, fur melting away until he was back in his human skin. Naked, he scaled the back of the house and slipped in through Stiles’ bedroom window – so practiced at opening it that he could probably do it in his sleep.

 

He shut the window behind him and spared a moment to brush off the soles of his feet. Then Derek burrowed his way under the covers on top of Stiles’ unmade bed. He stretched, luxuriating in the comfortable bedding and the smells left behind by its previous occupant.

 

* * *

 

 

The wolf – Derek – was waiting for him when he got home from school.

 

In his bedroom.

 

Stiles froze in the doorway, backpack half way off his shoulders, and stared at the gigantic black wolf curled up on his bed. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, not sure what he could even say. “Uh…”

 

He watched the wolf open one pale eye, then the other, the werewolf watching him with a decidedly disgruntled air. As if Stiles’ arrival had woken him up from a nice nap.

 

“I’m not sure how you…” Stiles’ eyes drifted to the window. The _closed_ window. “Did you come in through my window?” He asked, incredulous. “Because I’m pretty sure someone would have called the cops if they’d seen a big-ass wolf breaking in through the front door and we lost the key to the back door years ago so it only unlocks from the inside and I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if it was hanging off its hinges or something.”

 

Derek huffed out a sigh, raising his head slightly to point his snout in the direction of the window.

 

“Okay. Window.” Stiles nodded to himself. He let his backpack drop to the floor. “Wait – how did you close it?”

 

Derek just stared at him.

 

Stiles squinted at the wolf, trying to figure out how on earth Derek could have closed the window again using only paws and teeth. In fact, he wondered how on earth Derek could have opened the window in the first place while in wolf form. An explanation clicked into place and Stiles’ jaw dropped open.

 

He quickly looked around his bedroom, checking for signs of discarded jeans or shirts that didn’t belong to him. When he saw nothing he looked back at the wolf, his eyes wide.

 

“Did you climb up the side of the house _naked_?” he asked, his voice raising a little higher than he’d have liked. “Oh my God.” Stiles paced back and forth in front of the bed, hands scrubbing over his hair while the wolf watched. “Oh my God. You were naked in my room. _Derek Hale_ was – is –  naked in my room. Does it count as naked if you’ve got fur on?”

 

Derek blinked at him, then gave a wolfy shrug that was really more just a shake of his fur-covered shoulders.

 

Stiles sat down on his desk chair in a boneless slump, tipping his head back against the headrest. “Seriously, what even is my life right now?” he asked the ceiling, not expecting an answer.

 

His plans for the afternoon had been completely derailed – there was no way he was going to be able to concentrate on anything with the giant black wolf on his bed. Especially knowing that if Derek were to change back to his human form he’d be completely naked…

 

 _Shit_ , Stiles thought, remembering the werewolf’s olfactory capabilities. _Don’t think about Derek naked, don’t think about Derek naked. Fuck – I’m thinking about Derek naked_.

 

As if Derek had somehow read his mind the werewolf hopped down off the bed. Stiles saw the movement in his peripheral vision and shut his eyes, attempting to will his thoughts into a less embarrassing direction.

 

There was a sudden odd crunching, popping sound. Like bones grinding together.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

The voice made Stiles’ eyes pop open in surprise and he nearly flailed his way right out of his chair at what he saw. Derek had somehow appeared right in front of him, his hands braced on the arms of Stiles’ chair as he leaned over the teenager in concern. He was close enough that Stiles could see every colour in his pale eyes – the outer iris flecked with different shades of green and an inner ring of brown surrounding the pupils. Through just his peripheral vision Stiles could see miles of flawless skin broken up by dark hair. If he dared to look down just a little he’d be able to see everything the werewolf had to display.

 

Full frontal.

 

“Oh my God,” Stiles squeaked, and covered his face with a hand. Badly, with gaps between his fingers for his eyes. Because his subconscious was an asshole that wanted to embarrass him by leaking sex pheromones in front of the hot werewolf guy standing naked in front of him.

 

“Stiles.” Derek frowned slightly, eyebrows drawing together in concern. 

 

Stiles’ eyes flicked down to Derek’s mouth. It was completely involuntary but he couldn’t help himself.

 

Derek’s mouth was a thing of beauty. His lips looked soft, his mouth full and shaped as perfectly as if they’d been painted. Without meaning to Stiles’ mind flashed on Derek’s mouth wrapped around his cock, lips shiny and red.

 

Alarmed, worried that Derek might be able to _sense_ what he was thinking about, Stiles dragged his gaze back up and – to his utter mortification – locked eyes with the werewolf instead.

 

Derek was looking at him with something other than concern. Eyes dark, pupils wide, Stiles’ watched Derek’s nostrils flare slightly as if the man were scenting the air.

 

A hand, warmer than his own, grasped Stiles’ wrist and gently pulled his hand away from his blushing face. It didn’t let go, Derek’s fingers firm around his wrist, the skin-to-skin touch making Stiles tingle.

 

Slowly, almost painfully so, Derek leaned in. He closed the distance between them, his eyes closing at the last second just before he touched their mouths together.

 

Their lips touched and it felt to Stiles as if the whole world moved in slow motion.

 

It was absurd, because it was just a kiss. A point of contact, like hands touching. Only it felt much bigger than that. Derek’s mouth closed softly on Stiles’ bottom lip and the teen trembled, exhaling shakily through his nose. His eyes slipped closed. Tentatively, not really sure what he was doing, Stiles mimicked the movement of Derek’s lips against his. He thought maybe he should be freaking out – at least about this being his first kiss with a guy, if not about the fact that he was being kissed by a (naked) werewolf several years older than him.

 

The appropriate thing in this situation would be to freak out. Not to kiss back. Not to close his eyes and let the sensations wash over him in waves of distracting tingles.

 

Stiles thrust out with his arms. The movement wrenched his wrist from Derek’s grasp, one palm slapping against the man’s shoulder and the other pushing flat against his chest. At the same time he pushed himself backwards, chair scooting back several inches.

 

“Stiles,” Derek said again, his voice soft. He stayed where he was, crouched awkwardly with one hand hovering in the air. “Are you okay?”

 

“Okay?” Stiles repeated with a half-laugh. “Am I okay? Are you okay, Derek? You’re the one who just kissed me – _me_ – we should be checking you for head injuries! Also you’re naked, so…” Stiles threw his hands up in the air in a helpless gesture. “Excuse me if I’m a little thrown here.”

 

“I thought you wanted to,” Derek said simply, seemingly not at all concerned about his current state of nudity.

 

“I…” Stiles could feel his face heat up, his cheeks turning that awkward blotchy red they did when he blushed. Embarrassed, he shifted around a bit, wishing he had the power to disappear at will. “Well… yeah. I mean, you – look at you!” Stiles gestured to the other man with one hand. “You’re all… But I’m – I don’t even know what you’re doing in my room, man. I don’t get why you’d want to kiss me. Even if you could obviously smell how I feel about you being all –“ he gestured again “– in my room.”

 

Derek stood. Which really didn’t help, since it put his crotch at about Stiles’ eye level. Then he turned, which also didn’t help at all. And then he grabbed a clean pair of Stiles’ boxer briefs from the pile on top of his dresser and put them on. He turned back to Stiles, the briefs covering him but not doing much to hide the shape of him underneath.

 

“I like your room,” Derek explained easily. “It smells like you. My motel smells like cheap cleaning products and a hundred other people. I can’t sleep there.”

 

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He shut his mouth and narrowed his eyes slightly.

 

“Stiles, I kissed you because I wanted to,” Derek continued. “I thought you wanted it too.” His eyebrows raised slightly in challenge. “Was I wrong?”

 

Stiles hesitated. The answer was obvious to the both of them, but he found he couldn’t say it.

 

Derek crossed the room and leaned over him again, his face only inches from the teen’s own. “Think about what you want,” he said softly, and touched Stiles’ bottom lip with a gentle fingertip.

 

Then, before Stiles could even process it, Derek was gone. He’d shucked the briefs that he’d borrowed, changed shape back into that huge black wolf, and leaped out the open window.

 

Stiles stayed sat in his chair for a minute or two, staring at the boxer briefs on the floor. Eventually he moved, body mechanically continuing on with his usual routine while his brain kept floating back to the kiss, to Derek’s body, or to the way the man had looked at him before he’d left.

 

He knew better, he thought. He should know better. His dad was the sheriff for chrissakes, he knew all about the statistics. An older man approaching a teenager should always be side-eyed and looked at with suspicion. Even if the age gap was only six years – and Stiles had done enough snooping to know it was – those six years could be the difference between an adult and a child.

 

Stiles didn’t like to think of himself as a child, but… Well, in the eyes of the law he sort of was. It didn’t matter that he’d been forced to grow up young, that he looked after his dad almost as much as his dad looked after him. It didn’t matter how smart he was if he still looked (and acted) sixteen.

 

Maybe it was different for werewolves?

 

Rules could be broken when you had to take the supernatural into account. It wasn’t as if human laws accounted for people who could change shape or grow claws and fangs at will. Stiles had already accepted that there was no way police could have handled the creature in the woods that night. Assuming laws about violence didn’t apply to werewolves (who could heal from most injuries anyway), what other laws would even be relevant?

 

It was weak justification.

 

Even so, Stiles knew that even if he decided not to leap at the opportunity presented by a drop dead gorgeous werewolf who for some reason seemed to want him, he still wouldn’t be telling his father.

 

For some reason he had the feeling that if he really, genuinely asked Derek to back off then he would.

 

He also had the feeling that if he said no, but didn’t really mean it, then Derek wouldn’t back off at all.

 

With Derek featuring so heavily on his mind it wasn’t much of a surprise that Stiles would dream about him that night. He dreamed that he and Derek were standing in a vast, featureless room. In the dream, Stiles watched as Derek stripped slowly out of his clothes. Once Derek was fully naked he reached out to Stiles, who’s dream-self was already unclothed. Together they sank to the floor, and the rest of the dream was a tangled mess of kissing and sex.

 

He woke up with a mess to deal with and the memory of Derek’s naked body burned onto the back of his eyelids.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek knew, though he didn’t really understand it himself, that Stiles didn’t think he was particularly special. Stiles thought himself plain, awkward, and annoying. He saw the way his peers reacted to his enthusiasm and scattered way of thinking and took too much of it to heart. He didn’t see himself the way that Derek saw him – didn’t understand why exactly someone he thought of as better than he was would be interested in him.

 

Derek knew this. The same way he’d known it was a gamble to kiss him.

 

It could have been too early. The wrong move could have scared him off.

 

But Stiles had still left his window unlocked that night, which told Derek that he wasn’t really afraid.

 

Hesitance was fine. Insecurity he could deal with.

 

The Hale Vault was untouched even after all of these years. A secret within a secret, hidden in plain sight with an entrance where nobody would even think to suspect it. Not even the hunters could have imagined the Hales would ever be so bold. Though, to be fair, Derek’s mother had always said that the Vault had come first. Hales had been living in Beacon Hills since before the town even had a name.

 

Derek entered the Vault through the main entrance beneath the sign at the front of Beacon Hills High at four in the morning when it was still dark and nobody was around to see him. He descended the stairs with slow, measured steps, and let his eyes change colour to alpha red at the bottom.

It took him a moment to find the light switch. A few seconds in which his entire world was lit in shades of red. By the time the lights were on the entrance had closed and he was alone with all the family history he had left.

 

Artefacts stood on shelving. Some of them were true antiques, some of them useful because of the properties they held, and some were simply family heirlooms deemed too fragile or important for display in the old Hale House. A few cardboard boxes were stacked in the corners, their edges beginning to decay – baby clothes and Christmas decorations, things his mother hadn’t wanted to throw out but couldn’t justify keeping around the house anymore.

 

There were safes too.

 

Three big ones at the end of the room. Old fashioned, with combination locks instead of the more modern keypads. One, Derek knew, contained deeds and bonds; paperwork worth millions of dollars. One contained a few very important heirlooms – the family talisman, the pearls that had first come to the family from his great-great-grandmother.

 

The last one was the one that he wanted.

 

Derek closed his eyes and spun the combination lock, listening to the clicks. When he reached the last number he heard the tumblers fall into place and twisted the handle to open the safe.

 

A photo album, the only one saved from the fire. An ancient laptop computer. A slightly charred teddy bear. Relics of a past life. A life destroyed because he hadn’t thought to really get to know the woman he’d been interested in.

 

Derek plucked the photo album from the safe. He took it to a corner of the room where a rumpled old green couch sat and sank down into the lumpy cushions with the album in his hands. If the photos in there were the ones he remembered, then Stiles shouldn’t have any trouble understanding why he might appeal to a wolf.

 

* * *

 

 

The text arrived just before the first bell rang to signal the start of the day. Stiles blinked down at his phone and the unfamiliar number on the screen, for a moment not sure who would even be texting him.

 

Normally the only people who messaged him were either his dad or Scott, and Scott was standing right in front of him.

 

It might make sense for someone else to be texting him if he had a group project or a paired assignment in the works, but so far none of his teachers had decided to enact that particular hell on their students this year.

 

The penny dropped just as Scott happened to glance down at the screen.

 

“Meet me after school,” Scott read aloud, his brows drawing together slightly in confusion. “Meet who after school?” he asked Stiles.

 

“Uh, nobody,” Stiles said unconvincingly, fingers flying over the screen as he tapped out a reply. “Nobody important. Just, you know, a person that I know that you probably wouldn’t know who isn’t really anyone you know.”

 

“Meet you where,” Scott read over Stiles’ shoulder, ignoring his best friend’s attempt to shield the phone from view. “B-T-W lacrosse practice after school… Are you texting a girl?” Scott guessed. “Is that why you don’t want to tell me who it is?”

 

“No! It’s not a girl, Scott. It’s –“ Stiles stopped when his phone beeped with Derek’s reply.

 

_Stay in the locker room after. I’ll meet u_

 

“A boy?” Scott guessed, his face open and non-judgemental.

 

Stiles hadn’t even actually told Scott that he thought he might be bisexual and yet Scott was just as ready to accept that he might be texting a mystery boy as he would be a mystery girl. It was one of the many, many reasons Stiles considered Scott his best friend.

 

“Sort of?” Stiles winced, then relaxed a little when the bell rang. “We gotta go or we’ll be late. I’ll tell you later – maybe!”

 

He raced off before Scott could reply, already thinking of ways to put the other boy off asking about the person he’d been texting.

 

As it turned out he needn’t have worried. The arrival of a new girl was distraction enough for Scott, who fell head over heels at the very first sight of her. She was sweet, Stiles conceded. A dimpled brunette with a beautiful smile. Stiles totally approved of Scott’s ambition to ask her out.

 

But – in his mind at least – she didn’t hold a candle to Derek Hale.

 

Lacrosse practice was brutal. Jackson hadn’t told anybody about almost being attacked by a giant black dog on the lacrosse field after school, but he also clearly hadn’t forgotten about it… Or the fact that Stiles had been there to witness his humiliating retreat. As a consequence he seemed to single the other boy out for special treatment, never missing an opportunity to tackle, trip, or ‘accidentally’ bump into him during their drills.

 

By the time practice was over Stiles was more than ready to throw in the towel.

 

He lingered in the locker room long enough that by the time he was done showering most of the other boys had already left. He took his time getting dressed and sorting out his gear, and by the time he had his shoes on the locker room was empty.

 

Almost.

 

“I have something I want to show you.”

 

“Jesus Christ!” Stiles jumped at the sound of Derek’s voice, whirling around to face the other man.

 

Derek seemed to melt out of the shadows, invisible one moment and the next standing right in front of him wearing dark jeans and a black leather jacket. The sight of him made Stiles’ heart skip a beat, something he was almost convinced Derek could actually hear.

 

“Wear a bell!” Stiles exclaimed, grabbing his bag from the bench nearby and throwing it on over one shoulder. “I swear you scared me half to death, man. You’re lucky I don’t have a heart condition. Wait,” he said, brain catching up to what Derek had said. “Show me?”

 

“Come on.” Derek nodded in the direction of the school. “We can get in through this way.”

 

“Get in where?” Stiles said, even as he followed Derek out of the locker room and into the empty corridor.

 

“You’ll see.” Derek threw a small, barely there smile over his shoulder. “It’s safe,” he assured Stiles, anticipating the teen’s next question before he’d even thought to think it. “I promise.”

 

Derek led him down into the school’s basement, past the boiler room and into a hallway Stiles hadn’t even known existed. He shoved an empty set of metal shelves out of the way to reveal a circular symbol carved into the concrete wall. Before Stiles could open his mouth to ask what exactly they were doing looking at a wall, Derek used his claws to turn the symbol like a door handle and an entire section of the wall swung in to reveal a cavernous room beyond.

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathed, already able to see the rows of shelving and stacks of boxes inside.

 

“Come on,” Derek said again, tugging gently on Stiles’ sleeve to pull him inside.

 

The wall shut behind them and there was a second of darkness that made the teen’s heart beat far too fast. Then Derek switched on a light.

 

“The Hale Vault,” he said, turning to wave a hand at all of the shelves and boxes in the huge concrete-walled room. “My family kept their most valuable things in here. I wasn’t sure it’d still be here… I thought someone might have found it.”

 

“This is what you wanted to show me?” Stiles asked, wandering further into the room without touching anything. He was awed, a little, by the obvious age and importance of some of the things he could see. And by the fact that this place had been lurking undiscovered beneath the school for who knows how long, filled with undiscovered secrets.

 

Stiles ran his fingers over the lip of a shelf, swiping through a surprisingly thin layer of dust. “Is this because I’m your pack now? You wanted to… show me your history?”

 

Derek shrugged. He crossed the room to a corner that Stiles hadn’t noticed where an old couch had been shoved up against the wall, a battered coffee table in front of it. He picked up what looked like a photo album from the table and sat down on the couch to crack it open. He looked down at the photos for a moment, then up at Stiles, an odd sort of vulnerability in his eyes.

 

“I wanted to show you… what it was like before. My family.”

 

Floored, Stiles trailed over to the couch and sat down beside the older man, letting his backpack fall to the floor. “Okay,” he agreed softly, not even questioning the assumed intimacy of letting someone see treasured family memories.

 

Stiles leaned over to look at the album, his eyes landing on a photo that had obviously been taken on a family beach trip. Several people readily identifiable as Hales smiled at the camera, all of them wearing sunglasses or with their eyes squeezed shut. A boy Stiles guessed to be Derek was grinning wide enough to show a missing front tooth, a skinny arm thrown around a little girl that had to be a sister.

 

“Cora,” Derek said, pointing at the little girl. “She was the youngest. Then my cousins Beck and Jason, then me, and Laura,” he went around the photo, naming each of the smiling Hales. “Uncle Rob, Aunt Lisa, Aunt Amelia, and my mother. Uncle Peter was behind the camera. There were more of us,” he added, still looking down at the photo. “My grandmother was at the house looking after Bettina, Rob and Lisa’s eldest. She was human. She’d gotten drunk with some friends the night before.”

 

“Your dad?” Stiles asked softly.

 

Derek shrugged. “Mom didn’t make it a secret that Laura, Cora, and I all had different fathers. She married my stepfather when I was nine. This was before that.” He flipped a page in the album and pointed out a photo of three men standing together in front of a barbecue. “That’s him.”

 

Stiles recognised one of the men in the photo, though he was much younger (and much less scarred) than when Stiles had seen him. Knowing exactly what had become of Peter made seeing a photo of him as a young and handsome man a surreal experience. He was looking away from the camera, happy and relaxed, with no hint of the rage that had driven him to kill his own niece.

 

The other two men Stiles didn’t recognise at all. One was a tall, thin man with chunky, unfashionable glasses and slightly crooked teeth. The other was a stocky, brown-haired man with forgettably average features. Next to Peter, who looked as if he could have stepped out of the pages of a magazine, both men looked ridiculously plain.

 

“Who’s the other guy?” Stiles asked, hoping that the answer would tell him which of the two very plain-looking men Derek’s mother had wound up marrying.

 

“Aunt Amelia’s boyfriend,” Derek replied, gesturing to the shorter of the two.

 

In another photo three women with dark hair and thick, perfectly sculpted eyebrows gossiped around a picnic table. Talia, Amelia, and Lisa – the three Hale sisters. They were beautiful in the same way Derek was, with high cheekbones and full lips. They reminded Stiles of runway models, or Hollywood actresses, the kind of people you expected to see on TV and not in real life.

 

And, apparently, one of them had married a nerd with bad teeth and the other had dated a guy so plain you could have lost him in a supermarket. Even Derek’s Uncle Rob, now that Stiles thought about it, was much plainer than Lisa.

 

“Wolves don’t care so much about looks,” Derek said softly, carefully tracing over the photo of his stepfather with a fingertip. “Scent, compatibility, that’s more important.”

 

“So… wolves aren’t attracted to people based on looks?” Stiles asked, a flush building on his cheeks as he thought back again to how Derek had kissed him. “So you don’t care what someone looks like if they smell good to you? I mean, if they’re an asshole then obviously that matters, but if you like their personality and you like the way they smell that’s what makes them attractive…?”

 

Derek looked at him, something dark and wanting in his eyes. “Looks can be important too,” he said softly, gaze flicking down to Stiles’ lips.

 

Stiles felt his face grow hotter, butterflies battering the walls of his stomach. Derek leaned towards him, moving slow to give him plenty of time to back away if he wanted to.

 

Stiles did not want to.

 

The kiss was soft, barely more than a brush of lips. Derek’s breath was warm and sweet, like he’d been chewing gum before he’d come to get him. Stiles closed his eyes. He raised a hand tentatively, and this time when he touched Derek’s shoulder it wasn’t to push the man away.

 

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ mouth, his voice low and breathy, “but I could smell how you wanted me… There’s something between us, isn’t there? Something that could be good.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, angling his head so their mouths slotted together again.

 

It was stupid. He _knew_ it was stupid, but he didn’t care. Derek was six years older than him, a werewolf, and an adult. It would be a secret, no matter what happened. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone, not even Scott – Scott might get in his head to tell someone for Stiles’ own good. He’d be worried that Derek was only using him, that it was dangerous to get involved with someone like him, and he’d probably be right.

 

The photo album dropped to the floor, Derek’s hands sliding around Stiles’ waist. The touch burned hot through Stiles’ t-shirt, his skin reacting to Derek with goose-bumps. Stiles gripped the lapels of Derek’s leather jacket, using them as leverage to pull himself closer as they kissed.

 

Derek made a soft noise against Stiles’ mouth, then hauled him closer, using his werewolf strength to pull the teenager onto his lap. The move made Stiles gasp, sudden arousal making his cock twitch in his jeans at the thought of what Derek could do with that strength. His lips parted and suddenly Derek’s tongue was teasing against his, sharing the faint minty taste of spearmint gum.

 

Hands tugged at the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt, gently pulling the material up to expose his stomach, then his chest. Reluctantly, Stiles pulled away from the kiss and leaned back to tug his shirt up and off, trusting Derek to make sure he didn’t fall. He dropped the t-shirt to the side, his face flushed as he watched the way Derek looked at his bare skin – like he was the most delicious thing the werewolf had ever seen.

 

As if to prove it, Derek’s hands tugged Stiles closer again, his head dipping so he could press an open-mouthed kiss against the teen’s skin at the junction where shoulder met neck. The touch – soft lips and hot, wet tongue against his skin – made Stiles shiver.

 

The next kiss had a hint of teeth, and a bit of suction that almost made Stiles moan aloud at how good it felt. His hips twitched a little, unconsciously grinding down and pressing closer to the bulge in Derek’s jeans.

 

Stiles tugged at Derek’s jacket, trying unsuccessfully to pull it down off his shoulders. “Off,” he breathed. “Come on – off – take it off –“ Derek removed one hand from Stiles’ skin briefly, then the other, removing his jacket with a few sharp tugs before tossing it aside. “Shirt,” Stiles demanded breathlessly, Derek’s mouth against his jaw.

 

“Yeah,” Derek agreed, adding one last kiss to the teen’s skin before gently pushing him back and off his lap.

 

Stiles went only because he figured it was so Derek could take his shirt off without potentially elbowing him in the face. He stood up and backed away a step to give Derek room… and so he could watch, his mouth hanging open a little, as Derek stripped out of his Henley to reveal the perfectly sculpted muscles beneath. Stiles’ fingers twitched, wanting to touch, and after a moment’s pause he realised he _could_. It was that thought that had him in Derek’s lap again, straddling the older man’s thighs, palms stroking over his naked chest.

 

Derek’s skin was warm and smooth, his chest dusted with fine black hair that was surprisingly soft to the touch. Stiles’ fingers combed through it, fascinated by the way it felt. He tried not to compare Derek’s body to his, instead focusing on the way Derek kissed him with open want and barely restrained strength.

Stiles was skinny and pale and he could feel Derek’s erection brushing against his inner thighs when he shifted on his lap, the touch muted by two layers of denim. It made him feel better about the way he was tenting the front of his jeans.

 

It made him feel powerful to inspire that kind of want in someone so viscerally attractive.

 

Emboldened by the knowledge that Derek wanted him back, Stiles chased the older man’s tongue with his own, tentatively licking at Derek’s bottom lip. He was rewarded with a soft, helpless sound against his mouth and hands grasping at his hips. Derek’s body rolled. He ground himself upwards against Stiles, hands pulling the teen further up in his lap until he was in a better position – sitting right on top of his denim-clad erection, Stiles’ own hardness pressed right up against Derek’s stomach.

 

Stiles made a sound half way between a whimper and Derek’s name, too turned on to be embarrassed.

 

Derek responded with a growl – deep throated and animal – and a gentle nip to Stiles’ jaw. “You smell so good right now,” he murmured close to the teen’s ear, his voice rumbling far more than usual. “You’re so fucking sexy, Stiles.”

 

“I’m going to come in my pants,” Stiles breathed in reply, hips twitching up against Derek’s stomach, cock rubbing against the inside of his pants.

 

“Fuck. Okay.” Derek removed one of his hands from Stiles’ hip and instead wedged it between them, fingers fumbling to find the button at the top of Stiles’ fly.

 

He’d just popped it open, just about to pull down the zipper, when an obnoxious ringing sound shrilled through the air.

 

Startled, Stiles jumped a bit, nearly falling off Derek’s lap. It took him a second to recognise the noise as his dad’s ringtone, and a further second to remember he’d stuffed his phone into the front pocket of his backpack.

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Stiles hissed, shimmying backwards until he could slide off Derek’s lap. “It’s my dad,” he explained, glancing up at the suddenly disgruntled-looking werewolf as he dug in the bag for his phone. “I have to get this or he’ll – hey, dad!” Stiles answered the phone a little too cheerfully and winced at the insincerity of it, hoping his dad didn’t pick up on how much he _didn’t_ want to be on the phone just now.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek slumped back against the back of the couch, tipping his head back in frustration. He could hear the sheriff’s voice coming from the phone, slightly distorted by the speaker, asking Stiles where he was. For just a moment the urge to kill the man surged through his body. Then it passed, and Derek’s shoulders sagged slightly.

 

He couldn’t kill the sheriff. Aside from not really having done anything to deserve it – unknowingly interrupting them to ask Stiles if he’d forgotten that he said he was going to swing by the station after practice didn’t count – the sheriff’s death would only ever take Stiles further away from him. In grief, yes, but also because Stiles was sixteen and would either be sent away to live with a relative or picked up by the state to go into foster care.

 

And while Derek would follow him wherever he had to go, a whole household full of people would be much harder to navigate around than a single father who worked long hours.

 

Stiles loved his father, so his father would stay.

 

And anyway, Derek knew how much it hurt to lose family.

 

 _Do you even miss me, you creep?_ Laura’s voice whispered through his skull. _This one’s not running away from you. You have him, but you need a pack too._

_Stiles is pack_ , Derek argued silently.

 

_Stiles gets your dick hard. You need betas._

 

 _He can be my beta_ , Derek glared at the ceiling, listening to Stiles apologising over the phone and promising to be there soon.

 

_Wolves, Derek. You need other wolves. Ones who won’t give a shit if their parents need them. Ones who’ll be loyal to you._

 

 _One step at a time_ , Derek growled at the nagging Laura-voice, annoyed that she was making sense.

 

He did need betas, but he wanted Stiles more. He’d solidify their relationship first, make sure that the teen wasn’t going to abandon him. He could think about turning betas after that.

 

Derek tuned back in just in time to hear Stiles saying goodbye to his dad. The teen hung up, then turned back to Derek with a pained expression on his face.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Like, so sorry. You have no idea. But, my dad…”

 

“It’s okay,” Derek replied, sitting up properly again. “I understand. Family’s important.”

 

“Yeah.” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. He looked self-conscious now and was starting to smell a little of nerves. He held himself a little awkwardly, clearly not as comfortable having his shirt off in front of Derek now that he wasn’t being distracted by his arousal. The teen’s nipples were peaked in the cool air, a light flush on his cheeks and the top of his chest. He looked delicious, though clearly he didn’t think he was anything special.

 

Derek stood. He put his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, skin to skin, and offered him a small smile. “It’s okay,” he said again, softer. “We can do this again. Another time, somewhere nicer. Your dad’s important to you.”

 

“He’s, uh, he’s all I have left,” Stiles said, not quite looking Derek in the eye. He fidgeted a moment, then leaned in and kissed Derek quickly – just a peck, but still a kiss – before darting away to find his t-shirt. “Thanks for – for showing me this place and, um, those photos. I know it was a big deal and I – I’m really… I’m glad I got to do this with you, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek agreed, not bothering to try and find his own shirt. He had a feeling it had been tossed over the back of the couch. “Me too.”

 

Stiles pulled his t-shirt on, checked that it was on the right way, then scooped up his backpack. “Do I get out that way?” he asked, pointing back the way they’d came. “Is that the way to get out or is there another way?”

 

“You can get out that way,” Derek confirmed. “Just hit the switch by the door and it’ll open for you. There’s another way,” he added, “but that opens up in plain view out the front of the school. I wouldn’t recommend that way.”

 

“Whoa. Yeah, no. Emerging from a secret underground vault out in front of the school where anyone could see? Not a good idea, no siree.” Stiles stood awkwardly for a moment, clearly not sure how to handle goodbyes after what had happened between them. “Um…”

 

“Go on,” Derek told him, nodding in the direction of the exit. “I’ll text you later.”

 

Once Stiles had gone, long after he’d heard the vault door open and then close again, Derek sighed and retrieved his shirt from behind the couch. He shrugged into his jacket, checked that everything in its pockets was still there, and finally headed towards the exit.

 

His next stop after exiting the school was the library. He sat down at one of their public computers and brought up a couple of real estate pages. A motel room wasn’t a long term solution. Not if he was going to be staying in Beacon Hills for the next two years at the least. He spared a thought for his laptop back in New York, wishing he’d thought to bring it with him when he’d gone after Laura.

 

His real estate needs were, he thought, pretty specific.

 

He needed a decent sized space somewhere without any nosy neighbours to notice who or what might be coming and going – that immediately ruled out apartments, or houses anywhere but the very outskirts of town. He wanted it to have good security, or at least the potential for good security. Doors and locks could be outfitted later, but good sight lines were harder to come by. It couldn’t be _too_ run down, not if he wanted to bring Stiles there, and it needed a secure space to sleep… which ruled out a lot of the places available in Beacon Hill’s industrial area.

 

Eventually he settled on a place that he thought could work and emailed the agent to book an appointment for inspection.

 

Buying the place would take time, but he had that. A month wasn’t too long a time to wait for paperwork to clear, assuming that was all it took. In the meantime he’d just have to sneak into Stiles’ bedroom for more daytime naps. Or…

 

Derek smiled to himself.

 

He could sneak in during the night in his wolf form. Now that Stiles was more comfortable with him he might be amenable to letting the wolf sleep on the floor. Or on the bed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, Stiles wasn’t entirely sure how, occasionally bumping into (or ‘being stalked by’) Derek Hale turned into planned meetings with Derek Hale. The Jeep was still in the shop, its repairs going slowly but steadily as Stiles scrounged up the money for them, so sometimes Derek would give him a lift home from school after practice. And sometimes they’d stop for take-away milkshakes, or for a walk through the preserve.

 

Sometimes Derek walked with Stiles to school in his wolf form, keeping him company by the bus stop and letting him pet the surprisingly soft fur on his shoulders.

 

And sometimes Derek would wind up in Stiles’ room, reading quietly while the teenager worked on homework or napping in wolf form on the bed. Most of the time those visits to Stiles’ room wound up with both of them on the bed, kissing and touching and rubbing their bodies together. Which would then escalate into Derek’s hand on Stiles’ dick and his face against Stiles’ neck, hips rutting up against the side of Stiles’ thigh as he stroked the teenager to completion.

 

Stiles had only returned the favour a couple of times so far, though he was keen to do it again… And maybe more.

 

He knew Derek would fuck him if he asked for it. He was pretty sure the only reason the older man hadn’t gone for it yet was because they never really seemed to have the time for it. Not since the sheriff had rotated off night shift and was back to being home at reasonable hours.

 

“I’ve got a place,” Derek said when Stiles brought it up one afternoon, when both of them were semi-naked on the bed, relaxed and sleepy after having come. “Sort of. Still waiting on some paperwork, but it’ll be mine soon.”

 

“Yeah?” Stiles asked, curled up against the werewolf’s side with his head on the man’s shoulder. “You decided to stay in Beacon Hills for good then? That’s good. I like that, that you decided to stay.”

 

“For you.”

 

Stiles cracked a smile, a warm feeling buzzing through his chest at the simple declaration. They still hadn’t defined what they were, but Stiles was pretty sure that ‘secret boyfriends’ was an appropriate term.

 

Which meant his secret werewolf boyfriend had decided to stay in Beacon Hills just for him.

 

“Where’s the place? Is it close by?”

 

“It’s near the industrial district,” Derek explained, fingers idly scratching against the back of Stiles’ hair. “A big place. Semi-converted. I wanted somewhere I could come and go from without anyone noticing.”

 

“In your wolf form, you mean?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles nodded as best he could with his cheek pressed tight against Derek’s skin. “So it’s big and it’s in the industrial area. Semi-converted means it was probably part of that redevelopment that never got off the ground a couple years back, so it’s somewhere around the old distillery, right?”

 

Derek smiled. Just a small upturn of his lips. “I love how smart you are.”

 

“Common knowledge, man. It’s not that hard,” Stiles demurred, though he was pleased by the compliment. “Anyway, that means it’s just a short way from the edge of the preserve. Maybe a ten-minute drive from the school? Good location for secret werewolf stuff.”

 

“I want you to come over. When it’s done.” There was a beat of silence, then Derek added almost hesitantly; “If you want.”

 

“Are you kidding?” Stiles asked. He propped himself up so he could look down at Derek, the older man shirtless and dressed only in open jeans while Stiles himself was only in his underwear – the last bits of clothing they hadn’t quite managed to discard before falling onto the bed in the first place.

 

Stiles swung his leg over Derek’s denim-clad thighs and shifted so he was hovering over the older man, hands braced on the mattress at either side of Derek’s head. “Like you could keep me away from your new place,” he scoffed, wiggling a little in place just to tease. “I’m going to be over there all the time. All. The. Time.”

 

Derek smirked up at him, his hands sliding up the outside of Stiles’ thighs, up over his briefs. “Why would I want to stop you?”

 

Stiles shrugged – an awkward move in his current position. “Maybe you’d get sick of me,” he said, aiming for casual.

 

“Never,” Derek’s reply was immediate and confident. He slid his hands up Stiles’ sides until he could hook his fingers over the back of the teen’s shoulders and pull him down for a kiss.

 

“Never,” he repeated against Stiles’ lips.

 

Stiles smiled against Derek’s mouth. It might be creepy and co-dependent of him, but he liked knowing for sure that Derek was so into him.

 

Maybe it stemmed from years of unrequited crushes on unattainable people, from being left out of friend groups and always picked last. He’d been labelled that weird, hyperactive kid way back in elementary school and it had stuck. Girls ignored him. Boys picked on him (or ignored him). The few friends he had apart from Scott were just school-friends, people he could sit with in class but who didn’t really want to associate with him anywhere else. Even his dad sometimes found him too much – too much energy, too much talking, too much impulsivity – for a man who already had a demanding job.

 

From the outside, Derek was someone way out of his league. He was hot, he had an air of mystery around him, he drove an amazing car, and he was now the sole heir to the Hale fortune (a fact that had all the young, single moms in Beacon Hills fanning themselves and salivating every time he walked past).

 

All of that was true. But Stiles knew what was under the surface too.

 

Derek was a werewolf. An alpha. He’d been forced to kill the last of his own family, both to avenge his sister’s death and to save a stranger. He hid his vulnerability behind a stoic façade, but on the inside he longed for connection. He wanted someone to take care of, but he _needed_ someone to take care of him too.

 

He was damaged, and maybe a little immature for his age, his personal development stalled by loss.

 

And somehow they just _fit_ together.

 

Somehow when they were alone together Stiles wasn’t just the weird kid who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

 

“Maybe I can stay the night sometime,” Stiles suggested lightly, his heart pounding a loud tattoo in his chest, “when you’ve got your new place ready. When there’s, you know, a bed and everything.”

 

“Maybe,” Derek rumbled in agreement, the faint glow of red that ringed his irises enough to tell Stiles just how keen on that idea he really was.

 

“I can tell my dad I’m staying at Scott’s. He’ll cover for me.”

 

Scott would want to know what was up, but Stiles was pretty sure he’d be on board. At least, he would be if Stiles told him about the whole ‘secret boyfriend’ thing without actually telling him who (or how much older) said boyfriend was. He’d probably just ask Stiles to cover for him the next time he wanted to disappear with his new girlfriend. Who, come to think of it, was also outwardly way more popular than Scott and was ‘slumming it’ with a genuinely nice boy instead of dating one of the jerks in the ‘popular crowd’.

 

Stiles mulled over the issue for a couple of days, then decided it was probably best to prep Scott for the possibility of covering for him rather than just springing it on him in a couple weeks time.

 

He texted Derek to let him know he’d be late getting out of school that afternoon, and practically sprinted down the hallway after his last class to catch Scott before he left for the day.

 

“Scott!” Stiles literally caught the other boy just before the exit, grabbing hold of his shoulder and using it for support while he panted.

 

“Stiles?” Scott replied easily, completely used to his best friend’s occasional oddity. “What is it?”

 

“I need to talk to you,” Stiles told him, breathing slowly returning to normal. “I wanted to catch you before you left for the day, thought maybe we could hang out by the bleachers for a while or duck into an empty classroom or something. Somewhere nobody else is going to be. Your mom is still on night shift, right? So she’s home right now? Yeah, it’s best if we can talk here.”

 

“Okay,” Scott agreed dubiously. “What’s wrong? I’m gonna guess if what you want to talk about is something you don’t want mom hearing it’s something bad, right?”

 

“Not, uh, not really. Nope. No. It’s not bad,” Stiles hedged, steering Scott through the rapidly dispersing crowd of students and back towards the classrooms. “I mean it’s not bad per say, it’s just something my dad would like to know about and I don’t want him to know about it and your mom would probably tell him.”

 

“Is this something that’s going to get me in trouble?” Scott asked, even as he willingly followed Stiles into a nearby classroom and shut the door behind them. “Because the last time you said something like that your dad almost wound up arresting us for trespassing.”

 

“I can one hundred percent promise you this has nothing to do with trespassing,” Stiles said confidently, then paused in thought. Did Derek sneaking into his room count as trespassing?

 

“I feel like maybe I should question that?” Scott dropped his bag on top of a desk and took a seat at the next one over.

 

“I’m questioning it too, Scotty,” Stiles admitted, sliding into one of the other desks. “Does it count as trespassing if you’re inviting them in?”

 

“Without the owner knowing?” Scott shrugged. “I guess it depends if _you’re_ trespassing too.”

 

“Okay, well, forget that.” Stiles waved his hands, dismissing the previous topic physically as well as philosophically. “I, uh, I wanted to let you know that there might be a favour that I’m going to ask for – maybe – not now, but in the future. Soon. And, cards on the table, I’ll totally be down for repaying the favour if you want me to. You know I’m good for it.”

 

“Oh-kay,” Scott said slowly, drawing out the word a little as he waited for Stiles to get to the point. “What kind of favour are we talking about?”

 

Stiles felt his face heat up, his cheeks turning that blotchy pink they did when he was flustered. “I was sort of hoping you might cover for me one night so I could stay over at, uh, at my boyfriend’s.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Scott said immediately, nodding. Then he blinked, the full implications of the request sinking in. “Wait, you have a boyfriend? A serious enough to be thinking of staying the night boyfriend? Do I know him?” Scott’s eyes widened. “Is it Danny!?”

 

“Just because I asked him _one time_ if he thought I was attractive –”

 

“Twice,” Scott corrected helpfully.

 

“Okay, twice then,” Stiles conceded. “Anyway, it’s not Danny. Actually, he doesn’t go to school here.”

 

“Is that why you didn’t tell me about him?”

 

Stiles hesitated. He looked at his best friend, noting that Scott was trying very hard not to look even a little bit affronted at the idea that Stiles had kept something secret from him. And in the past Stiles’ bisexuality had been only a very vague concept eclipsed by his crush on Lydia Martin, but Scott had taken the ‘boyfriend’ revelation without even blinking.

 

“It… Um, he’s kind of older?” Stiles hedged, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not a huge age difference or anything, but he’s over eighteen and I’m not, so… I guess I was kind of worried about how you’d react.”

 

Scott shrugged. “I’d have to meet him to decide if I like him or not, but I was never going to judge you for dating a guy. You know that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles grinned. He’d pretty much counted on Scott being supportive.

 

“And he’s not too much older?”

 

“No. Just enough that my dad would probably freak out.” _Understatement_ , Stiles thought. “Plus, you know, I haven’t even told dad that I’m bi. I don’t know if I’m ready to find out how he’d react. I know he doesn’t have a problem with gay people, but bi is sort of different, you know? I don’t want to talk to him about it and find out he’s one of those people who think ‘bi’ means ‘secretly just gay and too scared to admit it’.”

 

Scott shook his head. “I don’t think he’d be like that,” he said sincerely, “but I get it. I’ll cover for you with your boyfriend if you need me to. But you have to text me so I know you’re okay. At least once when you get to his place and once when you leave. That’s the rule,” Scott decreed firmly. “Deal?”

 

“Deal,” Stiles agreed, and stuck his hand out so he and Scott could shake on it.

 

“Alright,” Scott grinned. “So now we’ve got that out of the way, what’s his name?”

 

* * *

 

 

Sleeping in the motel room was easier now that Derek had a couple of things from Stiles’ laundry basket to add to the bedding. Small things, easily stuffed into a pocket while Stiles wasn’t looking. A sock, a couple of pairs of underpants, unwashed and saturated in the teen’s smell. It was easier, better, to be able to sleep with his nose pressed against the fabric – almost as if the boy were there with him.

 

It was even better to sleep in Stiles’ bed, which even after washing the sheets still smelled like the both of them. Like sex.

 

Derek loved the way his hands smelled after making Stiles come.

 

He’d intended to work his way up to penetrative sex slowly, aware that Stiles was a virgin and that pushing too fast could scare him off, but he was quite happy to throw that plan out the window. Especially after _Stiles_ had suggested that he stay the night when Derek’s new place was ready. True, he might not have meant it that way… But if he’d let Derek finger him, or eat him out a little, then that would be enough for now.

 

_Will it?_ Laura whispered, showing him images of Stiles in tears, face down on a featureless mattress and covered in claw marks and bruises.

 

The wolf in him wanted to bite into that pale, mole-spotted flesh. It wanted to leave marks, so all of those dull jock-boys in the locker room would know that Stiles was taken.

 

He remembered how it worked in highschool. The boys would see, and they’d tell their other friends or their girlfriends. Gossip spread like a virus. The fastest way for Stiles’ peers to know he was taken wasn’t to tell them – it was to show them.

 

There wasn’t a lot he could do to prepare before the building was in his name and he had the keys in his hand, but Derek still went out and pre-ordered the basics to be delivered the day after everything was finalised. A bed frame and mattress, a table, a couple of chairs and a couch. He threw in a lamp and some bedding at the last second, reasoning that there was ‘bohemian’ and then there was ‘pathetic’.

 

He went to the local department store and picked up a box of glasses and some towels. Then added some nicer toiletries than the ones he’d been using – he might not care too much if he had to use travel soap and home-brand toothpaste, but he didn’t want Stiles getting the impression that he was cheap. Not when he could easily afford to give the boy anything he could ever want.

 

Derek dumped those purchases in the boot of his car, to be retrieved when he had a place to put them, and drove to Beacon Hill’s shadier district and the one proper adult store in town.

 

He walked in, not even bothering to nod to the green-haired guy behind the counter, and headed straight to the selection of lubricants on display next to a disturbingly varied array of condoms. Derek ignored the condoms – Stiles was a virgin, and Derek preferred skin-on-skin – and browsed through the selection of anal lubricants with a critical eye. He went for quality over flashiness, ignoring anything that boasted chemically-sweet flavours.

 

There were other things he could have gotten too, things he might want to use with Stiles in the future, but not now. Not yet. If he bought any of them now the temptation would be unbearable.

 

He might be able to get away with sliding his tongue over Stiles’ skin while he was still sleeping, but vibrators and plugs would be asking too much.

 

The sum total of Derek’s conversation with the green-haired clerk basically amounted to the guy quoting a price at him and Derek grunting an affirmation. He left the store with an opaque plastic bag and a sense of anticipation coiling low in his gut.

 

Stiles texted him while he was driving, so by the time Derek pulled up near the school he already knew that the teen was going to be late getting out.

 

Derek took off his jacket and boots in the car, checking carefully to make sure nobody was around to see him wandering around barefoot before he walked out into the woods near the school. Once he was a sufficient distance away not to be seen from the road he stripped and left his clothes folded up under a bush.

 

It was effortless now to shift from man to wolf, nearly painless after all the practice he’d had since that first, terrifying shift in the motel room.

 

On four paws he padded to the edge of the woods and waited patiently for the last bell to ring and the rush of students from the school.

 

Once he was sure the last of them had gone, the wolf trotted out from the trees and crossed the field. He listened hard for the familiar sound of Stiles’ voice, zeroing in on the boy’s position based on scent and sound. He came to a stop outside a classroom window, turned twice in a circle, and lay down in the dirt. Slightly overgrown bushes provided camouflage and shade, and from here he could listen in to the conversation inside without needed to strain.

 

He listened to Stiles ask for his favour, and Scott’s sensible but slightly annoying condition.

 

He listened to a sanitised description of himself which made his nose scrunch in amusement, pleased with the way his boy described him to outsiders. And with the way his heartbeat stayed steady throughout. Which meant he truly believed what he was saying, even if it wasn’t the full truth.

 

He listened to Scott’s assessment that he sounded like a good guy, but that Stiles should be careful because he might be expecting more from him than he was ready to give.

 

“You know, sex-wise,” Scott said, awkward but earnest.

 

“Oh, I’m seriously ready for all the sex, man,” Stiles replied immediately – and Derek nearly gave himself away before he forced his treacherous tail not to react. “You don’t even want to know what I’ve been doing with these lately,” Stiles added, and Derek could just picture him wiggling his fingers in the air.

 

“Yeah, I did not need to know that. Thanks.”

 

Derek slunk away from the window, keeping himself low and out of sight until he was back in the woods. He trotted past where he’d left his clothes and made the long, slow turn through the woods that would take him to the Stilinski’s neighbourhood. By now the people around there were used to seeing a ‘big black dog’ wandering around on its own or with the sheriff’s kid, so most of them probably assumed he was tame and therefore nothing to worry about.

 

He bee-lined to the Stilinski house and checked the front drive for the sheriff’s cruiser, then checked the house itself for tell-tale heartbeats. When he heard nothing he went to the back yard and – after checking that none of the neighbours were watching – switched forms so he could climb in through Stiles’ window into his room.

 

Naked and human, Derek shut the curtains behind him.

 

He stretched, raising his arms above his head to pop his spine, and crossed the room to flop down on his back on the bed.

 

He thought briefly about the lube he’d left in his jacket in the car, then fished under the pillow for the cheap lubricant Stiles had on hand.

 

He didn’t need it so much for himself, but unlike him Stiles was circumcised and needed a little extra wetness.

 

Derek left the lube unopened on the bed beside him, readily visible and within easy reach. He slid both of his palms down over his own body, brushing over the sides of his chest and abs, down over his hips. He dug his fingertips into his upper thighs, kneading the muscle beneath his skin, and dragged his blunt, human fingernails lightly through the hair dusting his inner thighs.

 

He cupped himself with one hand, thinking about Stiles doing this to him – the teen’s long-fingers curled lightly around his balls, palm against his cock – and felt the organ under his hand twitch as it filled further with blood. It didn’t take long for him to get fully hard like that, just cupping himself and thinking of Stiles.

 

Derek rubbed himself a little with his palm, kneading his balls with his fingers and feeling the dusting of hair there – he’d never bothered with manscaping. None of the wolves he’d known ever had. Pubic hair trapped a person’s scent. Scent was usually more important to a werewolf than smooth, hairless skin.

 

He loved that Stiles – teenaged boy that he was – didn’t bother with that sort of thing either.

 

Derek shifted his hand to gently grip the base of his cock. Keeping the touch light he dragged his hand up the shaft, lazily rubbing up over the head before squeezing gently on the way down. It felt good, his arousal a low, steady hum beneath his skin, and he was content with that for now. He wasn’t aiming to get off, just touching himself and keeping his body thrumming with that slow-burning heat while he waited for Stiles to come home.

 

He heard the key turn in the lock downstairs, the front door open and shut, and footsteps move across the floor. The heartbeat that moved with them was as familiar as Derek’s own.

 

The footsteps half-heartedly jogged up the stairs, slowed in the hallway, and stopped briefly at the closed bedroom door.

 

Stiles opened the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, and froze in the doorway with his mouth hanging slightly open.

 

“Derek?” he croaked in surprise, sudden arousal flooding his scent, clearly not having expected to come home to the werewolf jerking off naked on his bed.

 

“Stiles,” Derek purred in reply, arching his body to show off for the teen. He rolled his hips up, pushing his dick up through the loose ring made by his fist so Stiles could see. With his other hand he gestured for the teen to come over. “Come here.”

 

Stiles stared at him for a moment, looking dazed, then snapped into motion. He stepped properly into the room and shut the door behind him, then flung his backpack off and hastily ducked down to pull off his sneakers. When he stood up again he was half-tangled in his shirts, franticly trying to pull both t-shirt and flannel up over his head.

 

Derek let go of himself and sat up. He got off the bed and moved to help, gently untangling Stiles from his shirts and helping him pull them off.

 

Once he was free Stiles immediately grabbed for the fly of his jeans, deftly popping open the button and hurriedly unzipping. He let Derek help tug the denim down to his thighs, then shimmied out of the jeans and kicked them aside.

 

Stiles hesitated briefly with his hands on the waistband of his briefs, but a glance at the hungry look on Derek’s face was all it took to convince him to push them down as well.

 

As soon as Stiles had gotten his underwear off, Derek shoved him back up against the door, pushing up against him so the boy could _feel_ how hard he was.  He captured Stiles’ mouth with his own, licking his way inside to taste him, his hands grasping the teen’s wrists and pressing them back against the door.

 

Skin against skin, the full naked length of their bodies pressed together.

 

Derek growled his approval against Stiles’ mouth, teeth pinching the boy’s bottom lip briefly before he moved on to bite his way down the teen’s neck. Gently – he remembered himself at the last second – soft enough that it wouldn’t even leave any marks.

 

Mouth suddenly free, Stiles gasped for air, breath ghosting over Derek’s shoulder.

 

“Oh my God,” he panted, fingers curling uselessly against the wood of the door, wrists held tight (but not too tight) in Derek’s grip.

 

Before he could say anything else Derek pulled away. He used his grip on Stiles’ wrists to pull the teen with him, using their momentum and just a little bit of his strength to shove him down onto the bed. Stiles landed on the mattress hard enough that he bounced, lying on his back and looking a little dazed as he watched Derek approach.

 

Derek stalked his way onto the bed like the predator he was, eyes intent on his prey. He crawled up over Stiles’ legs and grabbed the boy’s hips, steadying him so he could lean down and rub his face over the tender skin beneath Stiles’ bellybutton.

 

A hand touched his shoulder and Derek looked up to see Stiles staring down at him wide-eyed, a mix of lust and apprehension on his face. The teen’s other hand was holding up the lube Derek had left out on the bed, fingers trembling just a little with nervousness.

 

Derek glanced down, his chin just barely scraping against the twitching, eager erection bobbing up between Stiles’ legs.

 

He smirked.

 

If the teen was nervous, his dick certainly wasn’t.

 

Derek looked back up at Stiles and lowered his head down just a little more, slowly and deliberately flicking his tongue out to lick the very tip of Stiles’ cock.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles croaked, voice strangled.

 

“I can smell it on you,” Derek told him, nodding towards the lube Stiles held. “I can smell it…” he slipped one hand down between the teen’s legs, ghosting behind his balls and over his perineum to just barely rub over his puckered entrance. “Here,” Derek finished, his voice barely a whisper.

 

Stiles jerked at the touch, hips twitching up and away. His dick bobbed in the air, nearly smacking Derek in the face. “Don’t –“

 

“ _Don’t_?” Derek asked, eyebrows raising slightly in challenge.

 

Stiles cheeks were burning red, his face and chest both flushed a pretty pink. He looked away, a hint of shame creeping into the scent of his arousal. “Don’t tease me,” he said softly, voice cracking a little. “I thought – if you…”

 

“I’m not teasing,” Derek told him, pausing so he could nuzzle against Stiles’ skin, nose bumping against the shaft of the teen’s cock. “Not teasing,” he repeated, and sucked the head into his mouth like he once had Stiles’ fingers, laving his tongue against the velvet-soft skin and savouring the taste of him.

 

He kept one hand on Stiles’ hip, holding the teen down. His other hand went back between Stiles’ legs, rubbing the pad of his index finger over and around the boy’s hole.

 

“Holy fuck!” Stiles half-choked on the words, fingers grabbing hold of the bedding and twisting tight – probably to avoid accidentally doing the same to Derek’s hair. “I – I – yeah,” he gasped after a moment, when he’d gotten used to the sensation of Derek’s mouth enough that it wasn’t quite so overwhelming. “I fingered myself, thinking of you. I thought a-about your dick, about what it would feel like inside me. I-I want…”

 

Derek kept his lips firm around Stiles, sucking softly even as he pulled his mouth slowly away. He looked up at the teen, aware that his eyes were flaring red; “There’s so many things I want to do to you.”

 

Stiles hesitated, teeth worrying his bottom lip. Then he offered Derek the lube, practically shoving it into his hand. “I want you to.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed breathily.

 

Which was good, because at this point Derek probably would have done it even if he’d said no.

 

Derek took the lube and popped open the cap. He poured some of the cheap, slippery goo onto his fingers, spreading it around both for an even coating and to help warm it up a little. Once he’d ditched the bottle (cap back on so it wouldn’t spill onto the carpet), he returned his fingers to Stiles’ hole to spread the lube over the teen’s skin. He rubbed over the tight little pucker, watching Stiles’ face and the way his mouth had gone slack with pleasure. It didn’t take long before the teen was relaxed enough that Derek could slide his index finger inside, barely pausing after his fingertip sunk in before he pushed in all the way to the knuckle.

 

Stiles was perfect inside. Burning hot, everything made wet and slippery by the lube.

 

Arousal throbbed through Derek’s body, his own neglected cock bobbing and swaying between his legs, demanding that he pay attention to his own need.

 

_You could fuck him now_. The whisper was his own voice inside the back of his head, the voice that told him to follow, to watch, to stalk his potential lovers like he was stalking prey. _Roll him over. Hands and knees. Fuck him like you want to. Fuck him like he wants you to. He hasn’t told the cops yet, he hasn’t told daddy about the big bad wolf, so he won’t tell_.

 

Too soon, Derek pulled his index finger out and pushed in again with two – index and middle finger, thrusting in slow but unyielding to jab at the teen’s prostate. Stiles’ cried out in surprise or pain-tinged pleasure. His back arched, body twisting as if to get away from the intrusion even as he shoved back against the fingers in his ass.

 

_Remember how Kate fucked you? You loved it, and she didn’t even like you. You’d make it good for him. He’d love it too, just like you did_.

 

“Derek,” Stiles gasped, hips twitching up and down in little abortive motions that didn’t quite fuck himself down onto Derek’s fingers. “I-I’m gonna come…”

 

Derek shifted until his free hand was holding the base of Stiles’ shaft, keeping him still so he could get his mouth around the teen again. His lips closed around the head just as Stiles orgasmed, his come spilling out onto Derek’s tongue in spurts. He swallowed, moaning at the taste of him, fingers pressing and massaging over the teen’s prostate in the hope that his orgasm might last longer.

 

All too soon the spurts of come died away and Derek was left gently sucking the remaining traces from Stiles’ skin. He pulled away when Stiles pushed at him and reluctantly withdrew his fingers from the teen’s body.

 

He thought about sticking his fingers in his mouth, but he wasn’t sure how well Stiles would take that.

 

Instead Derek rose up onto his knees, getting his lube-slick fingers around his own aching cock and jerking himself hard and fast.

 

He was close already, just from getting to touch his boy like that, to taste him like that. His eyes roamed over Stiles’ long, lithe body, watching the flush on his face and chest slowly recede.

 

His eyes locked with Stiles’ and Derek’s heart skipped a beat at the look on the teen’s face. Heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, Stiles licked along his bottom lip and left it shiny with spit.

 

Derek let go of his dick and dropped back to all fours on the bed.

 

He moved without thinking, hands shoving Stiles’ legs apart to make room for himself, hooking underneath his thighs to tilt the teen’s hips up just right. He pulled Stiles down the bed and closer to him, barely registering the gasp of surprise or the way the boy’s arms flailed a little in protest. Derek positioned himself over the teen’s body, using one hand to line himself up so that the tip of his cock was pressed up against Stiles’ hole.

 

“Der –“ Stiles started, his eyes wide and worried.

 

“Just a little,” Derek said, voice ragged with the strain of holding himself back from just plunging inside. “Just a little,” he repeated, almost pleading, jerking himself with his hand and rubbing the head of his cock over and around Stiles’ entrance.

 

He didn’t hear what Stiles said in reply, too busy making sure that when his orgasm hit he was lined up _just_ right to just barely push inside. Just a little, like he’d said, barely even the tip. Just enough so that his come would land _inside_ Stiles and not just on him, though some of it dribbled out around the tip of his cock anyway.

 

When he came down from his high it was to realise that he’d sprouted claws and fangs, the strain of holding himself back from fucking into Stiles enough that Derek had shifted to his beta form.

 

He licked over his fangs, then shut his mouth and looked down at the boy lying spread-eagled on the bed beneath him.

 

Stiles was staring up at him with a strangely unreadable expression. Though his eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open, Derek couldn’t tell if it was in fear, in awe, or something else entirely. A subtle sniff didn’t tell him much – there was a hint of fear, but muted, the smell of sex still too heavy in the air to detect anything else with any clarity.

 

If Stiles was afraid of him now, and experience told him that he would be, then he wouldn’t know for sure until the boy started screaming.

 

Derek’s heart sank.

 

He’d pinned his hopes on Stiles not being like the others.

 

Wearily, Derek lifted one clawed hand. He couldn’t let Stiles scream, couldn’t let him tell his father. Even if nobody believed the word ‘werewolf’ they’d believe an older man taking advantage of a teenager. He’d be arrested, or he’d be run out of town by suspicion and gossip. Laura wasn’t around to smooth things over for him now.

 

Still, he didn’t want to do it.

 

He loved this one, this beautiful boy.

 

Tears prickled Derek’s eyes, still glowing wolf red. His hand trembled a little as he raised it a bit more, getting ready to slash downwards. Then he stopped, shocked, when long, human fingers touched his clawed hand.

 

Stiles had reached up, meeting Derek’s hand with his own, and was tracing his fingertips gently over Derek’s claws.

 

* * *

 

 

He hadn’t seen Derek’s wolf-face since that very first night in the woods. The partial-shift – the ‘beta-shift’, Derek had said it was called – with claws and fangs on a human body. It looked somehow more savage than the wolf did. Derek’s face, but different. Eyes glowing red, the bones in his face rearranged to create a heavy brow and wide-bridged nose. A heavier jaw to accommodate those long, sharp teeth. Thick fur down the sides of his face.

 

Stiles’ first, most primal reaction to seeing the change was a moment of pure adrenaline-charged fear.

 

It didn’t help that the moment Derek changed was also the moment Stiles had felt hot come splash against his skin, and for a second he was convinced that Derek was going to forget himself and thrust his cock fully inside the teen’s body.

 

But he hadn’t, and Stiles’ moment of fear was suddenly replaced with a well of affection.

 

Because that – Derek so turned on that he lost control of himself and shifted as he came – was hot.

 

Weird, Stiles acknowledged to himself silently. But hot.

 

And kind of fascinating.

 

Which was why when Derek reached out with one clawed hand, looking somehow devastated and as if he expected to have to apologise for showing his wolfy nature, Stiles reached out to take it.

 

He traced the claws on Derek’s hand with care for the sharp points, delicately feeling the difference between these and a normal human’s fingernails. When that was done he laced their fingers together and held Derek’s hand, palm to palm as he looked up at the alpha werewolf.

 

“You lost control,” Stiles observed, unable to keep the hint of smugness from his voice, “because of me.” He reached up with his free hand to trace the ridges of Derek’s brow, feeling the hard bone beneath. “Because you think I’m sexy.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Derek said thickly, the words coming out a little slurred around his fangs.

 

He shifted his weight on the bed, making as if to pull back and away from Stiles. The teen grabbed at him, using their linked hands and Derek’s shoulder for leverage to pull himself up until he was sort-of sitting with his knees still hooked around Derek’s waist.

 

“Don’t,” Stiles protested, shuffling and rearranging his limbs until he was sitting more or less comfortably in the werewolf’s lap. “Don’t say sorry. I figure it’s just a hazard of having sex with a werewolf, right? You didn’t hurt me,” Stiles added sincerely, looking right into those burning red eyes, “it’s okay.”

 

Derek’s eyes flicked away briefly, then returned to meet Stiles’ gaze. The red faded from his irises and his eyes returned to their usual pale colour. “It’s… never happened before,” Derek admitted quietly.

 

Surprised, Stiles couldn’t help a grin. “Just with me?”

 

“Just with you,” Derek confirmed stiffly.

 

The werewolf moved hesitantly – his clawed hands settled on Stiles’ hips, extra-careful not to prick him with their sharp tips. The touch was nice, warm against skin that was starting to chill a little.

 

Stiles wasn’t particularly comfortable like this. Sweat he hadn’t noticed before was starting to cool, making some parts of him much colder than others. There was come between his ass cheeks and some smeared on the very tops of his inner thighs, also starting to become unpleasantly cold.

 

Still, he’d just had some seriously awesome sex and now his secret werewolf boyfriend was being insecure about accidentally shifting. Which meant Stiles wasn’t going to move until they had this sorted.

 

“You know I’m not scared of you, right?” Stiles asked carefully. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Derek’s furry cheek, the werewolf’s resulting shiver making him feel weirdly protective. “I don’t think this face is ugly or anything either,” Stiles continued softly. “It’s just you. Like the wolf is just you even with four paws and a fluffy big tail.”

 

“You don’t think I’m a monster?” Derek asked him, so quietly and so genuinely that Stiles was kind of horrified.

 

“No! Not – I mean, yeah,” Stiles gave a half-shrug, “you’re a werewolf, you’re technically a ‘monster’ but you’re not a _monster_. Creature of the night, horror movie staple – whatever – you don’t scare me, Derek. You’re not something scary to me. Yeah, I know you’re dangerous and I know you’re capable of killing but the only time I’ve seen you kill someone was when you saved me, a helpless kid, from your psycho uncle who was going to murder me in the woods.”

 

Derek snorted. It was difficult to read his expressions like this, but Stiles was pretty sure that meant he didn’t want to talk about it.

 

“You’re _my_ monster,” Stiles barrelled on. He pressed another kiss to Derek’s cheek. “And I’m your human.”

 

“My human,” Derek repeated, and rubbed his cheek against Stiles’ own.

 

Stiles grinned, and not just because the werewolf’s fur was tickling his jaw. He pulled back, scooting back up the bed so he had room to move his limbs. Ignoring the cold, sticky-slimy come still smeared all up his crack, Stiles lay down on the bed on his side, gesturing for Derek to follow him.

 

“Come on,” he said, “we’ve got like two hours before dad gets home and I want you to spoon me before you have to leave.”

 

Derek shifted, both in position and back from beta shift to human. He arranged himself behind Stiles on the bed, one arm draped over the teen’s waist, his chest pressed up against Stiles’ back.

 

“You still want to come over,” Derek asked, murmuring the question against the back of Stiles’ neck, “when I get my place?”

 

“As if you could keep me away, big guy.”

 

Derek didn’t reply, but Stiles could feel him smiling.

 

END

 


End file.
